A Batson in the Americas

It is my whopping great good fortune to spend the last days of March and a significant chunk of April in the Americas, beginning with a succulent taste of Brazil and ending up in the crisp, horizon-baiting landscapes of Canada where my brother Barton and his wonderful Marny tie the knot amongst friends, family and the kind of decorative snow that doesn’t get all slushy and in your socks. In between the two trips I am home for a matter of hours, thrusting my soiled Brazilian outfits towards Miss Jordan on the way up to my boudoir while demanding that the sealskin woolies are out and lunchbox packed for North America five hours hence. Such speed in and out is demanded if I am to make the most of my time with Miss Shazhorn who has kindly come over with a bottle of claret, in celebration of my midway point. On departure – all too soon – Licky tells me to look to the skies mid-Atlantic, Bateman having promised a display, if not a lift, in his nascent (and knowing him, narcissistic) flying machine.