Mike has gone back down south. We put him on the train at lunchtime. I have deflated his blow-up mattress and stowed it away in a drawer.
The holiday season is over.
Christmas acts as a buffer between one year and the next. Nothing that happens between December 20 and January 3 (approx) ever seems quite real.
I was going to compare Christmas to a fugue state, but having checked out what Wikipedia says about fugue, I suppose that's a bit extreme.
"Confusion over personal identity"? Actually that fits pretty well.
Because what I feel right now is that I've finally got my life back after a blurred hiatus.
Whether I'm happy about it is another matter.
Holidays Are Over
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Petworth
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