Well you can imagine my excitement. Receiving two small packets from my Mr Post Office Vincent, which, on the custom’s tag declared “Seasonal fare” in my father’s scrawl (sorry Dad, but it is). Seasonal fare! All kinds of images flooded into my mind – roast turkey (not big enough), stuffing (would it survive?), a Yule log (surely melted), glass of mulled wine (probably spilt by now)... But imagine then my frustration! Even though my eyes and nose were just as upturned and sniffing as the bisto kids’ I had to drag myself through a meeting lasting the whole day, with all the local govt officials and aid organizations such as the Red Cross etc. We were creating the Nyamagabe District HIV reduction strategy plan for 2007. Sometimes for these meetings you are very very lucky to be offered a lift by somebody extremely unreliable. Because this means that you will not have to sit through the ‘opening words’, nor perhaps the VIP’s introduction. But only if you are very very very lucky. My lift was probably less unreliable than actually very astute. We arrived an hour and a half late, and they had only just sat down. The rest of the meeting was ok, I had to rely on sparse translations but I did get a round of muffled cheers and smiles when I introduced myself and gave the basic outline of VSO’s project in Kinyarwanda.


Anyway, back to the important business. Food.


So, exciting it was indeed, and when I got back home I tore into the parcel (‘tore’ is perhaps a bit generous. Tree conservation is not high on mum’s list of priorities, nor is she prone to economizing on roles of selotape) and lo and behold it was my merry Christmas day! A tiny wee Christmas pudding! Wow! One to share with at least 8 on Christmas day methinks – that’s if I can find the means to cook it. There were lots of little sachets of this and that, some crisps and chocolate. But of all the things in the parcel, there was a little something whose unsaid but implied significance was immediately evident to me – a small packet of Scottish full butter shortbread.


“Don’t forget your roots Maggie – and make sure you come home!” the piper on the front seemed to smile at me.