So. Back in Cheadle (the Holy Land of my forefathers), and just about to do bedikat chametz with my Dad. Although I came home this morning to help, my Mum is so super-efficient that there's hardly anything left for me to do. She has let an outsourced contract to me for the seder plate and the fruit platter, which I will fulfill tomorrow afternoon.
There's supposed to be a ... spiritual holiness about Pesach. The clearing-out-your-leavened stuff is just as much about clearing out the cobwebby bits of your soul (hear my inner Chassidische rebbe rock, people), dealing with your personal exile. Wherever it's from.
Cheadle. Frankly, it's a lot of gold slippers, big hair and clothes somewhere on the matching tracksuits to semi-sparkly suits continuum. But it's home.
Update: My Mum's very upset about the last comment. She's says that's not Cheadle, it's Bowdon.
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