Charlie Adley

Date Published: 24-May-2007

As time goes by, my relationship with the land of my birth becomes ever more complicated.

I’m sitting in a service station car park, off England’s M11 motorway, a couple of miles away from London’s Stansted Airport. In a little while I’ll drive off to meet the Snapper, who is flying in from Knock, so that we can attend her brother’s 40th birthday party.

All around me there wails howls and cries, a cacophony of sirens from the many fire engines, police cars and ambulances making their way towards the petrol station forecourt not 200 metres away.

The English blithely go about their business. Having happily lived in Ireland for many years, I now twitch and react to the sound of sirens, but I never used to. When you’re born into a city that has more than double the population of Ireland, you can’t afford to worry about strangers that much.

England is not so much a country of 70 million people, but a collection of a million villages of 70 people. That’s how you survive.

To be fair, I’m probably a little sensitive to the sound of sirens at the moment as my father is once more in hospital. Originally herself and I were due to take this flight together, but I’ve already been here for a week, and a hard week at that.

Aye, a hard week.

The sunshine is baking the interior of my rental car, and I’m having trouble staying awake, so as soon as I’m inside the aiport I head off to buy a bucket of coffee.

The guy on the coffee station is having a terrible time, as his colleague yells constant and complex orders, (“Double skinny latte no foam! Medium double house blend non fat choccomochacino! Blend with a shot, caramel. Cappuccino nutmeg no choc grande to go!”) he struggles to keep up.

He spills an entire jug of foamed milk……………………….