Thursday 21st October
Day 183 ( 17 lost blog days)
“ What’s the difference between jet lag and tiredness?” asks our friend.
We are at Heathrow coach station waiting to start the last leg of our journey home. It’s a cold and grey 7 am. My body thinks it’s 2 am and would like to be asleep in a queen-sized bed in Boston. I think jet lag sounds more serious and exotic than just being tired - as if you left something behind in another dimension.
Since we got back yesterday, my feet are on the ground, tracing the familiar paths of our home but the rest of me is rolling in a glass bubble. I’m bumping into my old life but it feels unreachable - as if my finger tips are numb.
The pussy cat clings to me - close as a petticoat. He pads behind me or sits and watches me, unwavering eyes, as I chop broccoli in the kitchen, or fill the washing machine with our clothes that smell of air-conditioned hotels, or stand, confused, in front of the new room thermostat in the hall, trying to understand how to programme the heating.
I lost myself in the bright picture post card of New Engaland these last few weeks. I haven’t found my way home yet. I expect it’s just jet lag.
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