It's my last day at work for a month.
|ON MY WAY TO WORK THIS MORNING. GLORIOUS|
My stomach is churning (can I get it all finished today? What crises will develop in my absence? Will they all realise I was a waste of space?).
In three days, I'll be in San Francisco, drinking filter coffee and sniffing gently, trying to capture the smells of America (the strongest nostalgia is for the sweet, rotting fugue of New York or the damp, vegetative odour of New Orleans).
In less than a week, I'll be in Aotearoa, raising my eyebrows at people on the street in greeting, kia ora-ing and ka kite-ing, being welcomed back into the bosom of my family (oh god, I'm sick of you already, my mother will say. I will grin because it's true and also because we both know we'll cry at the airport when I leave. We always do). I'll be smelling sea-salt and dry grass wafting off a hot breeze. I'll stick my hand out the car window to feel the shape of it.
England has put on a show for me today (don’t go A, remember the springtime, I have green leaves and twisty lanes and daffodils, I'm fecund for godssake).
The bulbs outside my front door are budding. Where has winter gone? It never really arrived this year.
Don't worry London, I'll be back soon. Thank you for making it easy for me to return.