28th July 2008
Alive and well in the British isles, having paid €15 for a full irish breakfast, including coffee, and fresh orange juice. It’s good to be in my expensive wet cold corner of the world again.
It really is. Home. Home. Home. The thought of home is a wide smile and a hardly controlled urge to cry.
It started yesterday evening, as I was walking through Williamsburg, a cidery smile on my face. Home.
Happy I saw this new New York, happy I finally made some unfinished stories for myself in the city. And Happy to go Home.
Just one hour more of flight, Dublin to London this time, and I am home.
Back to terccaota and black chessboard tiles. Back to an airy kitchen and rose and strawberry gardens. And the pub and friends and pool and cider.
In borrowed blue jeans and an old clock pendant. Ripped bule jeans to my mum’s displeasure. Wonder if I should change before I see her, yet wonder if that would be denying her the pleasure of criticising my messiness.
Home. Where some of the heart is.
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