No cousin of mine

We are travelling down to Cornwall and as the journey is so long and tedious we break the journey at Gordano just outside of Bristol. I have a cousin who lives here whom I haven't seen since another cousins wedding back in 1999 or 98 even. Or as all the Irish fairy tales begin, a long, long, time ago.

I am a bad cousin because the last time before that was at my 21st, thirty years ago. Oddly enough I can hear her voice in my head and it hasn't changed a bit, Now I wonder what she really sounds like.

The reason I am telling you all this is because as we sat in an Italian restaurant in Portishead looking at the odd artwork on the walls. (These murals were definitely copies of postcards from the 60's when the colours were all so saturated) I was overcome with a terrible guilt. I could have and should have arranged to meet her. Maybe the reflux later that night which kept me awake until the wee small hours was some kind of kinship retribution. So as a man brought up a catholic I turn to blip in my times of reflection to confess.