It Was The Best of Times...It Was The Worst of Times

I know, where the bloody hell have I been?

Sorry.

I went home, and I didn't tell you did I? Not even a Dear John letter. We went home to weddings, snow, sideways sleet and hail and we loved every minute of it.

Now I'm back and curiously not as terrified as I thought I would be. We have some rather worrying times ahead (in American, read 'scary-ass-shit') - things that would make a grown woman cry - and frequently have -, and this vacation was rather like landing in the eye of a hurricane. Major crapola flying all around while I enjoyed endless cups of tea and Anna stalwartly refused to pick up a British accent. I had thought that I'd be on the plane coming back to the States as someone mounting the steps to the guillotine, but I feel oddly calm.

Maybe that's why going on holiday is such a good idea. Maybe I just needed a little break, a little time, a little perspective. Genius!

I suddenly feel like I can cope, at least in the short-term. Of course right now I'm horrendously jet-lagged and walking around high as a kite on fatigue and caffeine, so my perception of reality may be a tad skewed. I have already driven on the wrong side of the road twice since we arrived back on Saturday night. ­ The first time I made a comically exaggerated right hand turn into oncoming traffic until I realised what the chuff I was doing and veered back in to the correct lane. Good times.

I'm sure if you ask LK about my newfound sense of inner peace he'd raise an eyebrow about a foot in the air and point out that I freaked out on the plane flying back from Manchester. Justifiably I would say though. There was another plane at the same altitude as us, and we were nowhere near an airport. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and thought, hmm, that's odd you never see planes flying parallel, and especially not that close. Hmm, quite close really. Yes, gosh, really quite close now. Holy fucking shit, it was getting closer, and closer, and I was trying really hard not to watch it, but damn if I couldn't see it clearly enough to register that it was another United flight, and how many windows it had, and Jesus bloody Christ do planes have blind-spots because what the hell is our pilot trying to do, play chicken? An instant later we were flying through it's jet-trail and LK peeled me off the ceiling.

At least I didn't projectile vomit upon landing, like Anna, but hey, Chicago can have that effect on some people.

So yes, calm and collected that's me. We'll see how long that lasts.