Bournemouth

Some day, I’m going to have my shit figured out enough to actually have a *working phone* when I fucking *land* in a country and I have half-baked fucking plans for someone to pick me up.

 

That didn’t happen this time around.

 

What did happen was getting picked up by my beautiful fucking Writing Buddy.

She and her husband got up at fucking *four in the morning* to drive to London to come get me.

 

They even got a loaf of tiger bread for me to eat in the car.

 

I’ve been trying to get back for five fucking years.

 

People talk about those moments when reality doesn’t quite feel like something that’s actually happening. (Or maybe they don’t. I don’t probably have any idea what people actually talk about.)

 

I’d been up for what felt like four days straight, and it seemed like the first time in a month that what I was doing wasn’t carving the rest of my life in stone.

It wasn’t decision, it wasn’t huge things, it wasn’t hoping I was doing the right thing.

It was my Writing Buddy pointing out landmarks she’d used in her work, and getting a little bit lost on the way out of London.

I got to her house, and she’d fucking bought me a mug with the union flag on it, because neither she nor her husband drink tea, but she’s listened to me be a tea snob for long enough that she decided I needed my own fucking mug.

 

 

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