Flying is comically awful. Going right, without delay or waylay is the exception, not the rule. The last time I travelled I was awake for nearly 48 hours as I drove perhaps 6 hours, was delayed for a combined 20 hours, drove for four and a half, trained for nearly nine. I think I saw more people that day than every human to have lived before the birth of Christ combined. 

I won’t detail this particular discomfort, but suffice it to say I knew it was going to be a long night when they delayed us in knicks of quarter hours. 

I didn’t write a blog yesterday because I was delirious and confused and the day didn’t really end. I slept in a car and I got home just as my darlings were waking up.

Now I’m about to go to bed and I suppose I ought to write about two days at once, because they feel like two days made one. And I did an awful lot of work during them both, more than I’d like. 

It used to be that I’d get back from a trip, work or otherwise, and the jolt back to daily life, even a daily life I obviously prefer, would kind of bum me out. It was just a bit of whiplash that made me bitter for a few hours, never more than a day. 

This has not been the case in returning to Roby, I’m just glad.