October 10th, 1989

October 10th, 1989

At home

Managed to stay up all day, which, considering I spent last night flying across the Atlantic, is pretty good!

At TriStar House this morning, I bumped into Daniel from training, always a nice surprise to see a familiar face among the hustle and bustle.

“Where are you off to?” I asked.

“One of my favourite places,” he grinned.

“Where’s that?”

“Los Angeles.”

“So unfair,” I pouted.

“Too bad you’re not on it, we’d have a laugh flying together. Where are you off to?”

“Home. I just got in from Miami.”

“Oh, nice one. I like Miami, but not as much as LA.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I sighed.

“You haven’t been to LA yet?”

I shook my head. “I just recently got licensed to fly on the seven four.”

“Oh that’s right, you and Kimberly were on the course together.”

I thought about asking how he knew that but before I could he said, “Are you still seeing the guy from LA?”

“Who told you about him?” I asked.

He smiled. “Who do you think?”

“Was it Lorna?”

“Maybe,” he said, nodding his head yes, so enthusiastically it made me laugh.

Just hearing Daniel mention LA made me want to go straight to terminal four, buy a ticket and show up on David’s doorstep! Of course I did nothing of the sort and headed, instead, to the parking lot. Visibility was awful on the way home with torrential rain that didn’t let up. Utterly different weather to what we left behind in Miami.

Tonight, after dinner with mum and dad, I asked mum if she fancied going to the pictures.

“Are you no tired?” Dad asked.

“Not really,” I said. “I think I went past that point a few hours ago. Now I’m bored.”

Dad looked at mum. “Oh to be young again, eh Liz?”

“Aye I know,” mum replied. “I quite fancy seeing that new film wi that French actress.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“I cannae remember her name, she’s got black hair.”

“I was about to say Bridget Bardot but…”
Mum interrupted dad. “No, no her, this one is much younger. Och, she’s lovely.”

“That doesn’t really help, mum.”

“Uff, I wish I could remember her name.”

“Or the name of the film,” dad suggested, rolling his eyes.

“It’s about a wedding,” mum said. “And her Mother was Ingrid Bergman.”

“Whose Mother?” I asked.

“The French actress,” mum said.

“Ingrid Bergman was Swedish,” dad stated.

“Well her lassie is French,” mum declared.

“She was brilliant in Casablanca.”

“You know who mum’s talking about, dad?”

“No idea. I’m talking about Ingrid Bergman. D’ye remember her in Casablanca, Liz?”

“Oh aye, she was a stunner wasn’t she?”

“No a bad looking lassie,” he laughed.

Mum pointed to dad. “Here’s looking at you kid.”

Dad laughed. “We’ll always have Paris.”

Feeling utterly bewildered, I said, “I’ll go ring the cinema and ask what’s playing.”

“Cousins!” mum shouted from the kitchen as I dialed the number.

“Is that the name of the film?” I asked.

“Aye, it’s called cousins and the woman in it is something slola, sossa, leela. Uff, I’m sure it’ll come to me.”

I smiled and continued dialing so I could find out what time we’d we be watching the Italian actress, Isabella Rossellini.

 

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