It’s tough being back in London. For starters it’s freezing and the general mood is less than chirpie.  How on earth would it be? I, for one, am mourning being back in the real world. I pretty much jumped straight from my board into the car and headed for the airport. I was desperately trying to deny the fact that I was leaving the heat and the ocean behind me. The prospect of bleak grey days was downright unimaginable. I left the privacy and comfort of our house on the Kenyan coast to go back to hordes of people laden with shopping bags and stress. January sales make central London hell on earth and even more so when you touch down from paradise.

The truth is I had a glorious vacation. My days were filled with the pleasant taste of languor. Each morning I would wake eagerly anticipating the deliciously sweet mangos, papayas, pineapples and passion fruits awaiting me for breakfast. Then I would lazily settle into comfy beds along the terrace gazing out into the Indian Ocean. My biggest worry was whether there would be any wind that day. Like a long awaited lover we would sit around the terrace anxiously hoping for the wind to arrive. You see my family and I are all surf addicts. My mother has been a windsurfer for as long as I can remember.  For years she braved crowded islands and lakes filled with package tourists in order to dedicate herself to the sport.  For some reason the wind seems to favour overcrowded beaches to more desirable destinations, except here in Kenya of course. My mother practiced and practiced and when even the most ambitious and patient person would have given up she practiced a little more. Clearly she was obsessed. I think the struggle made it even more appealing to her just as one tends to be more attracted to the unavailable. As children my mother forced her obsession onto us too. By absolute law we had to become windsurf experts. From the tender age of 5 we were obliged to windsurf each holiday. With mini sails and boards we were sent out into the ocean from aboard our boat in the south of France. My mother even brought along a handsome teacher but even he couldn’t sweeten my experience. I was mortified, regularly finding myself miles away from the boat in the middle of the sea unable to pull the mini sail out of the water again. My mother is not one to take no for an answer. In her books “no” means “not now” which means “just keep asking” ending in me huffing and puffing “yes, alright as long as you leave me alone.” In truth, I hated windsurfing. It bored me to death. Luckily technology came to my rescue and invented a sport that is much more fun and quicker to learn. Step forward kitesurfing. Albeit the learning phase is somewhat scary and often painful- be prepared to be dragged along the beach a few times looking like an undercooked Milanese by the end of the class. Once however you get the hang of handling the kite there is no stopping.

One of the very few downsides to this fabulous sport is that the days of lounging carelessly on the beach are definitely over. Nervously I sit there, staring at the sea, trying to figure out whether the light breeze is already enough to keep my kite in the sky and my board plaining. A day on the beach is potentially a day spent kiting and you have to be ready as soon as the wind picks up.

When the wind is being difficult we head to the creek instead for some water-skiing. For some reason any TnT family activity turns into a die-hard competition. Further it feels like we have a string of appointments following each activity. As we pull out of the harbour the first person is already anxiously diving into the safety vest, pulling on gloves and squeezing their foot hectically into the ski. After all, no time should ever be wasted! My mother’s control freak gene has rubbed off onto my brother. He even screams commands from the water whilst skiing to make sure the boat toes him through the calmest and flattest waters.

…And in the evening we love watching movies from our vast imported collection projected onto a big screen. Of course agreeing on a film democratically is downright impossible so we have now reverted to a rotating benevolent dictatorship. Each night someone else has the power to choose whatever they feel like watching. Somehow this form of government works best for us.

Back in London I feel the urge to escape the gloom already hence I’m heading to Paris for the weekend. Unfortunately due to three snow flakes London is in a frenzy, mass evacuation does not seem far fetched.

Will I make it or will I get stuck in the Eurostar tunnel just like Claudia Schiffer did before Christmas? If I do, I intend to march down that track as rebelliously as she did. I’m back! I hope you missed me! Stay tuned for more…

• The Power of the Invisible Sun
• Lights, Camera, Inaction
• Emma’s African Diaries

Tags: Africa

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 7th, 2010 at 7:21 pm and is filed under Princess Diaries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.