There should have been a middle post. A post from the train south, a post from London, and then a post from the train back north. But I'm on the train back north and there was no post from London. So now the flatlands rush by the window and the memories of the last five days skip by along with them. My finger traces the bit I missed shaving this morning. I wonder if it's too OCD to grab my razor out of my suitcase, nip into the WC and sort those three or four of whiskers out once and for all. I decide against it. The train is not entirely stable and I'm pretty sure my punishment for such fussy vanity would be for a sudden jolt to result in me gouging a chunk out of my cheek.
A few memories draw a smile. Cowering under a gazebo, catching up with friends, hiding from the rain and swirling a glass of Burgundy while toddlers play and shout in the bouncy castle. Standing on a terrace by the Thames, sipping a pint and watching the party boats slip by under Hammersmith Bridge whilst the sun begins to set. Sitting in a pub with my publisher as he scanned the first scraps of my book with enthusiastic approval. A long awaited interview, with a long awaited result.
Home is always a mixed bag, though, and the passage of time tells more in some places than others.
Things are looking up, though, and I'll be back soon.