Reunited Across An Ocean Of Time.

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From my parents’ front window I watched my Scottish ‘uncle’ pull up at the front of the house and catapult himself out of his car. Cantering over the doorstep, he was already telling his first story, as his wife (who was ten years his junior) ran behind him trying to keep up.

My Fijian ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’ followed. The aunties were weighed down with huge pots of curry, the uncles wore their bula print shirts – the colours so loud they were practically neon. Every uncle brought a spare shirt for my dad. (He still has a drawer full of them. They no longer fit.)

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