On Saturday we will be leaving. We will take our bags and hurry to the aeroport for a plane. We will stand in dreary, endless queues where people frown and count the time which ticks upon their skin. I hope you will not cry. We will be beeped, checked, stamped and moved. In the middle of the sky we will not know if we are going home or leaving home. We are people of divided loyalties, of no-mans land. We've lived too long away to belong here or there. We love to travel and we relish the lost little town that we will visit in 2 days. We will roll through English countryside and catch our dreams in homemade jams and nostalgia traps in which we fall with glee.