It's strange being back in the UK. I feel like an alien, tentacles and antennae twitching conspicuously as I explore. There's all this stuff around. Unnecessary stuff which I alternatively covet and loathe. And TV, music, movies and books have all mutated into unknown, uncomfortable creatures.
I don't know where I fit, who I am, within this world, or any world in fact. But that's ok.
Of course, some things never change. Walking my gorgeous stink-dog through stagnant streams and muddy snow sluices is as much fun (and as hazardous) as ever. Proper tea and buttery toast is still the best cold-morning breakfast, as cozy and indulgent as it always were. Friends and I pick things up almost where we left off.
And then there's the writing.
Borders is the same haven as it always was; Vicky and Mike and I picked at 'Alex' as brutally (in a friendly way, you understand. No hostages taken) as it deserves this week. Implied promises of companionship and guidance are comforting, in this strange new world.
And, in other news, The Week That They Were Writers is about to be re-run, though sadly one man down.
In short, the writer's back in residence.
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2 comments:
Velcome back to Blogger, ye Writer! Vordpress stinks anyway, don't vorry :). For some reason being referred to as a man has made me act like a Vampyre. Um...? xxx
Um, with the biting and the aversion to garlic and stuff? Oh dear.
Have (well, Blake has) found a solution to the wordpress thing. Proxy servers rock.
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