I'm jumping on a train today to head back up north for a final time. Well, not final in the last-time-ever-never-again sense, but final in the, I'm-packing-up-all-my-shit-and-bringing-it-South-with-me sense. I'll be in Scotland again next month, but for very different reasons.
They say moving and divorce are two of the most stressful things folks do, and I can buy that. I feel they're quite similar to each other, really. There have been a few sleepless nights in the last week, turning over in my head the large catalogue of 'things' I have accumulated in the last four years. Then there are the things I had already. It's not the sort of collection that should belong to someone still renting. To possess that much shit, I should have a house or at least of flat to shove it all in.
The hope is that once the move is done and I've squeezed my life into my parent's garage (for the time being), that some degree of routine and normalcy can commence. No more commuting to Scotland, just the odd long weekend. The flow of both the book and the new job and rediscovering London and all that can proceed without the nagging sense of displacement and unfinished business.
The truth is, though, that I'm an ex-pat, and there's always a nagging sense of displacement.
And I've yet to meet anyone without unfinished business.
But I'll take a brief respite, regardless. And the train up will be good. Infinitely superior to driving a van down, I've no doubt.