So, the saddest, lamest City Break that anyone has ever taken is over.
This evening I returned to my house and, while the Tinkids didn’t exactly rush to cling to my shins like cricket-pads (just as well, since at least two of them are now taller than me), they did at least acknowledge my arrival. The word “hi” came from three different rooms, each at a different pitch, making them sound like three-fifths of the Close Encounters music.
And now I’m sitting typing on my own couch, and will be shortly off to my own room, to sleep undisturbed by traffic (where are people going at four o’clock in the morning?), the noise of the hotel lift, and the very faint, but still haunting (in every sense of that word), sound of diddley-aye music.
In other words, it’s good to be home.