4th March 2013

On Monday, Sue was summoned to Church Langton school for the day, where the staffroom was positively fizzing with gossip. Three stalwarts were leaving, which is a lot of emotional baggage for one kettle to bear. Sue was standing in for the Deputy Head, who was off visiting her new school in Luffenham, having recently bagged herself a Headship. The class teacher in question had worked her way up from teaching assistant to running her class, then Deputy, and now Head. Quite the career ladder-climb, though without the traditional academic paperwork to wave about. Proof, perhaps, that the British education system is not only evolving but also occasionally winging it with questionable success.

Sue was back in the classroom on Wednesday afternoon. Though reluctant at first, the promise of teaching PE in the sunshine, followed by RE (her favourite subject), was enough to tempt her. PE, then philosophy, a nice balance of sweat and sanctity.

Meanwhile, I took the far less energetic route of planting two rows of broad beans at the allotment. With any luck, they’ll be poking their noses above ground by the time we return from our holiday. Afterwards, Nan and I headed to The George in Oxendon for lunch, before hurrying back so she wouldn’t miss her all-important bingo session. Priorities, after all.

That evening, I drove to Charlotte’s for babysitting duty, with a quick pit stop in Braybrooke to chinwag with Roger Woolnough. The boys were still awake when I arrived. Suraj was at work, wrangling with a major IT upgrade that refused to behave. Charlotte was out at what I think was an Avon party (or something equally glamorous). The lads kindly walked me through their bedtime routine. I suspect I overshot the quota of bedtime stories, but no one seemed to mind. By 8 p.m., they were out cold, and I settled down with the Liverpool match. Suraj rolled in just after nine, and following a quick chat, I toddled home.

Thursday saw us clearing out the fridge for lunch, then trundling down to Heathrow’s Holiday Inn, a place we’ve stayed before and therefore knew where to find the pillows. A stroll to Sipson village was followed by a Thai meal in the pub, where the locals immediately clocked us as holidaymakers. The landlord treated us to a detailed retelling of his Venezuelan holiday, after which another local topped him with a tale about Rio. We nodded politely. Londoners, it turns out, are a chatty bunch.

Friday morning, we checked out and hopped on the Hoppa to Terminal 4. First in line for check-in, we were met by a young woman who seemed deeply suspicious of our lack of return flights. My breezy explanation, “We’re coming home by boat”, only added to her confusion. Eventually, a supervisor confirmed that yes, cruises are indeed a thing, and our boarding passes were grudgingly issued.

Security was mercifully straightforward. A delayed flight gave me the excuse to buy new sunglasses, while Sue people-watched. Two and a half hours, one orange juice, and a packet of nibbles later, we touched down in Rome. A shuttle train ferried us across to Terminal G, where our two-hour wait stretched to three and a half. At 1 a.m., we finally took off.

Sue fell asleep after one film. I watched three. They plied us with food, passable in my opinion, unworthy of comment in Sue’s.

It was raining in Rio when we arrived, and though our luggage appeared swiftly (a small miracle), our hotel shuttle was nowhere to be seen. “It left when the flight was delayed,” the information desk explained, “but it’ll be back.” Two hours later, with the novelty of people-watching worn thin, I distracted myself by writing. The moment I closed the laptop, the driver materialised, as if by magic.

The journey was shared with two Italians from our hotel, neither of whom spoke English. Out the window, Rio’s infamous favelas came into view, not just on the hillsides, but everywhere around the airport. They made a bleak impression: ramshackle stacks of corrugated metal and brick, seemingly glued together by sheer willpower. Huge vultures wheeled overhead, which did little for the ambience.

Two long tunnels later, we emerged into an entirely different Rio: neat flats, secure homes, and iron bars on absolutely everything. Windows, doors, walls, it seems trust is in short supply here.

Our room wasn’t ready, so Sue nursed her migraine in the hotel foyer while I took myself off for a first glimpse of Copacabana. Even under drizzle, it was magical: white sand, dramatic mountains, football-mad Brazilians, and hand-holding couples straight out of a rom-com. I perched on a promontory where fishermen were hauling in sprats barely worth the bother, then paused at a beach bar with a cold beer, my idea of sightseeing.

By the time I returned, Sue was sound asleep in the foyer (oblivious to the growing crowd). At last, we were given our room key. Once she was more comfortably dozing upstairs, I fired off emails home and had a quick Skype with Charlotte. Three fire engines roaring past the hotel finally woke Sue, and since she felt better, we ventured out.

We strolled along the beach, watched an angler land a fish far too big to be called “lucky,” and wandered into a street market buzzing with colour; greens and yellows everywhere.

Dinner was memorable, though not for the usual reasons. I’d left my reading glasses at the hotel, so ten minutes later I was back, collecting them while Sue tried not to look too abandoned. The food itself was excellent, but delivered in portions designed for a small rugby team. “No wonder so many of the locals are built like wardrobes,” Sue observed.

We picked up water and an experimental bottle of kumquat juice on the way back, then called it a night.