Back in London

In London, Heathrow is quiet and things operate quickly.  The longest human conversation that reaches my ear is the one I have with the guy who sold me the Connect ticket, he advises taking the Connect and not the Express service because the former is cheaper and will get me to Paddington only five minutes later; I comply. 

The Connect service to central London is virtually empty.  It passes stations that look deserted.  Passengers are dressed in light clothes, meaning it might have been a bright, warm day - it is 18C.  It is 10pm.

The taxi driver does not have a kind word for New York.  He is over sixty and is old-school, by his admission.  "Full of head bangers".  "Cab drivers don't talk English.  How can you communicate?"  "Too humid".  "Pub landlords have baseball bats behind the bar, why!".  "Too buzzy for me".  "My daughter takes her kids twice a year to Florida and New York, absolutely loves America.  But not for me, maybe for other people."  As he continues giving his full opinion, occasionally conceding something, I look out at familiar London.  It seems gentle, smooth on this Monday night.  I tip the driver; he asks: "you sure?".

For 18 days, I had made do with 5-7 hours' sleep every night.  Last night's sleep lasted only three hours.  As soon as I check my place and carry out basic human maintenance tasks, I realise I could sleep right away.  But I make the mistake of going online.  Three hours later, I am exhausted and hungry.  I fall back to the old routine: put a seed mix next to bed, put on something to watch, and dive into bed.  At an unspecified time later, I go out.

Twelve hours later I am up.  Yes, twelve.  I am shocked, and yet not quite because during its course, I felt it was a long lie-in.

The sky is gray.  No trace of sunlight. 

The pre-holiday thought patterns are back.  Urrghghgh!