It is just over 8 years since I moved from a small flat on the Highbury New Park Road, less than a half a mile a way from the Arsenal Football Club ground and 75 yards away from the White House Pub; scene of some of the most exuberant celebration I have ever witnessed. The pub's described as "adequate with wooden tables and chairs, but let down by its clientele" and as "a place for a pre-game pint". Both observations are true, I was that person.Actually, thinking about it, the most exuberant celebration was the party with 600,000 other guest on News Years Eve in Edinburgh, Scotland, at least by volume of alcohol consumed, broken bottles and can discarded and wayward kisses freely bestowed on the unwary.
In terms of "what the heck is going on?" it was being caught up in the frenzy of Spanish fans streaming down the Ramblas in Barcelona, when the football team of same name won the Spanish league title.
But for sheer emotional outpouring, the folks in Boston were hard to beat just over a year ago, when the Sox (there is only one color) did it and became World Series Champions.
And I am not about to start quibbling about the misuse of the word "World". Without the assistance of alcohol and at around midday, give or take a 4 hour wait, thousands of clearheaded fans celebrated something not done for 86 years, and then went home.
That's what I miss, the ability to keep a celebration going, until sleep is the only option.
But I digress. It's been 8 years, Thanksgiving has just passed, spent with new friends and relatives, the Foisy family, our neighbor's Emily and Graham and friends, Crystal and Bob; good kind people all.
My English family is 3554 miles away and my mum, in her 76th year, thinks to send us a Thanksgiving card. I miss my sons, my daughter and my 2 (soon to be 3) grandchildren, my brothers and sister and their families.
Eight years and I am fortunate to have much more than I left with. I am still an Englishman in Boston and you can hear it in my accent when I talk.
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