After seven weeks away there is no place like home. You'll recognise it, it's the one where the bills are piling up, the carpets need cleaning, something is rotting in the fridge, you never liked the paint scheme, your landline number is moving through telemarketers like wildfire and there's no toilet paper.
Real life? Who needs it.
I want crisp sheets on a vast bed in a room someone else has will clean and tidy.
I want to sit at a table and have someone smile and ask me what I would like to eat and drink and then bring it to me before forcing me to have dessert.
I want to celebrity spot in the world's most exciting city.
I want good manners and grits.
I want to stand on the edge of something I have never seen before and be wowed.
I want fish tacos from that place in the Mission.
I want a mid-afternoon margarita.
I want a mid-morning margarita.
I want a margarita.
This period is traditionally called, in my house, the Post Holiday Blues and the only way to really avoid them is to never go away in the first place (does not compute, does not compute) or to go away again quite quickly.
I have two weeks to do the filing, remember where my socks are kept, catch up with my correspondence and get rid of the extra layer I am carrying around my middle thanks to being too polite to offend come dessert time, then it's off to Australia to promote Dolci di Love in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne.
I see crisp sheets, I see someone smiling and asking me what I would like to eat, I see margaritas...