Who knows what’s happened?
Someone tell me quick before I bore myself to death…
We need upbeat, lively, creative fun, and what do I come here to offer?
I haven’t even a name for it.
So back to work my friends.
I refuse to get bogged down else I rot to death, here in Houston, strangled by my sluggish mind.
I’ve got to get moving and actually making it in through the studio door would help tremendously.
I had a great time in England with my family and, except for the last day when I was ready to get the flight over with, didn’t want to come home.
P wouldn’t even entertain the possibility of us moving back, which I thought was a little mean-spirited of him.
I mean, just because his job is here, and our kids are here, and I’ve picked up weird American pronunciations, doesn’t mean we have to stay. Right?
O.K. so I would miss the kids.
But I feel so normal in England, and still a little displaced here, even though it’s been 26 years now.
Pretty soon we will have lived here as long as we lived in England, and somehow that’s kind of sad for me.
But, no more wallowing…
I had a bit of everything I needed to have a bit of while I was there.
A pork pie.
A sausage roll.
Fish and Chips.
A pint of bitter.
A steak and ale pie.
And a lot of other things that I didn’t really need any of.
I watched British t.v. and drove around the countryside.
Well K drove me. I don’t think I could drive there at the moment. It would take me some time to get used to it again and not kill myself.
We got lost once, which K put down to my touching the GPS on her phone (I didn’t), and found a village called Chignall Smealy. Brilliant right? I mean imagine telling people that you live in a place called that. Or Throcking, or Anthorpe Roding. Or Clatterfield, Bacon End or Shallow Bowells.
Especially Shallow Bowells which could be construed as something entirely different.
And we drove down lanes almost too narrow for the car to fit.
And we’re talking about a small Fiat-y car.
If someone comes toward you you have to back up all the way until you find a small space to creep into. And even then we’re talking millimeters of passing space.
You have to take a lot of deep breaths and do a lot of finger crossing.
Also using your imaginary passenger side brake comes in handy, especially if your dad’s driving and doesn’t seem to notice that there are, in fact, other cars on the road.
I made it back alive though, even after both airplane flights which happily didn’t result in tragic endings somewhere over the Atlantic.
Going there was very quick. Seven and a half hours. I don’t think I’ve ever got there in that time before. And no jet-lag at the other end which was great. I put it down to the 9 p.m. take off, two gin and tonics, red wine and steak dinner which consequently resulted in a good, sound, anti jet-lag sleep.
It’s the only way to fly…
Coming back, however, was a full ten and a half hours during which I watched four films back to back and two pilots of t.v. shows.
One of the films I watched was Little Boy which was great.
I love those magical thinking movies.
Being a magical thinker myself I can totally relate.
I am pleased to be back though, in spite of a slew of doctor’s appointments lined up which are kind of getting on my nerves now.
Oh the wonders of getting older…
This week I’m going to make a concerted effort to get into the studio and work through the boredom and homesickness as best as maybe.
I need a project is all.
A great bit fat one which hopefully involves using up all of the cabochons in my top drawer.