We are home again. Yesterday we drove through thick hot heat, burnt yellow by the sun, to reach our little city. We spent the week in Paris, our feet walking on pavements, grey concrete, splashing in dirty urban puddles and treading the edge of the elegant, forbidden green grass. We are back in our house. We spent the week looking at Renaissance statues, crossing golden bridges flung over chic rivers, admiring tall buildings and sighing at the sudden beauty of a hidden square. We are home. We told stories on the metro, rode on merry-go-rounds, ate daurade, saw the Mona Lisa who is, my daughter told me ' Happy because she was born first', we drank bitter black coffee and tried on pink shoes and were proud to be ' fit as pellypots'. The two girls slept as we walked through Paris on the last day, side by side. Happiness was with us, strolling in the sun, wearing a purple hat and eating falafel doused in chili sauce. We are home now and we remember.
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