I’d forgotten just how hard it is to come back from holiday. I hadn’t been away since being ill, nearly two years. After a wonderful week in the heat and sunshine by the sea, lashing rain greets me at Gatwick and as I walk slowly these days, I’m drenched to the skin by the time I get home.
Surprisingly good to be back though, only a week away feels like months and I have to get used to the rustle and bustle of my neighbourhood. Travel allows you to step outside your normal life, perhaps get out of the way of all the stuff that stops you being your real self.
Trying to keep the positivity flame alive, though my joints are protesting like mad after the luxury of the sun. I creak like one of my French grandmother’s wardrobes.
The holiday also stays alive in the telling: friends want to hear all about it.
And for once I don’t mind them telling me I look well….