It’s not everyone who has a day named after them. I don’t see any Tom, Dick, or Harry’s days around and Trevor is never going to get his own 24 hours of fame. Despite this, I hate my name. It’s so average, just why my procreating creators labelled me with such blandness leaves me shaking my head in despair; such a lack of imagination, such boring conformity. But I’ve said all of this before.
Anyway, it’s Saint Andrew’s Day today – Huzzah!
Saint Andrew is the patron saint of not only Scotland, but also Greece, Romania, Russia, Poland, Ukraine (for as long as it is Ukraine), the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople (that’s a mouthful) and Saint Andrew parish, Barbados - one of the eleven parishes of that Caribbean paradise.
I’ve been to Saint Andrew; it’s situated at the northern end of the island, past Bathsheba. It’s one of the more unspoiled parts with green rolling hills, dense vegetation, and
views; some might
even call it remote, if it’s possible to be remote on such a tiny island. Atlantic
It’s been a while, but I’ll never forget getting lost and the road that we were meandering along suddenly going up and up until we came to a village that seemed to be perched on the top of a mountain in the clouds. Visitors must have been rare, because the older locals waved and the children danced along besides our jeep all smiles and braided pigtails. Barking mangy dogs ran along behind us and women in floral dresses passed bananas to us as we drove past their houses. I guess that they must have known my name was Andrew.
Shine bright like a diamond.