Was it because I slipped in the shower the morning I flew out? Bruised and badly-scraped, I sat on the plane unable to tell anyone that vanity (not owning a rubber shower mat) had resulted in pain. Something to do with time differences perhaps? I've been back for days and I'm still waking up way too early, forced to miss any good movies that start after 9 pm. The psychological shake-up of dealing with family close-up? I live a sheltered, almost monastic, life here in Brighton, and avoid the usual confrontations families encounter from time to time. Is it to do with de-accelerating? I rushed there, rushed about, rushed back, and then screamed to a halt. Perhaps this was too much for my now-countrified system to handle. I used to do rushing very well back in the city, and could stop on a dime...
It was lovely being in England again, seeing family and friends. It was a time often filled with emotional nostalgia, and there were some tears of both joy and sorrow. I prefer to save that kind of stuff for my writing so that I get to tie up all the loose ends. We don't get to do that in real life, where there are always loose ends dangling about somewhere. Perhaps that's why I write. I have a certain amount of control there.
I did all the usual touristy things; you know what people do in England in August. The photograph here is of a London Bobby chatting ME up, not the other way around. This is not the usual touristy thing, in my experience.
I have no idea why he befriended me, as we only asked if he knew a nice place for breakfast, but we walked a good few blocks together before he was waylaid by lost tourists. Oh, one son captured this picture from some yards ahead when he glanced back to see where I was. My sons always walk far too quickly for me to keep up with them. We were on holiday, for Pete's sake, so what was the rush? If any of you can comfort me with your own vacation blues anecdotes, it would be appreciated, as I'm feeling more than a little ungrateful and loserish. As it is, I'm meant to be painting soon, and then beginning my new book. The way I feel right now, I just want to bury my head in the sand and pretend to be someone else...but first I must buy a rubber shower mat.
Is it good to be back? I'm not sure. I'm reminded that it could be another year or so before I see my sons again (who live in England and Australia, respectively), and I often question why I'm here. My cats were very pleased to see me, certainly, but there should be more than that, I think.
Oh, yes, of course - the best bit about being home, beyond seeing my cats? I get to sleep in my own bed, with my very own pillow. Bliss is in the familiar, for me, now. To think I used to be so adventurous...anybody's pillow would do.
