You can never go home again



Well, you can. Of course you can. But it’s never the same. I got on a plane and came back to Blighty for a bit - birthdays of relatives, break from the routine, the whole job-lot - and while everything’s the same, it isn’t.

Cornwall. Never been to Cornwall before. Went yesterday and stayed over. It was alright. A lot of fun on the road trip to get there - and the associated places of interest, both near and far-flung. Corfe Castle and the surrounding village still looks like a place I could live for a bit. Car number plates (the ‘new’ ones) - still can’t get my head round them. I’ve decided to consign that whole mess to the ‘doesn’t matter whether I get it or not, so just accept it and move on’ bin. Oh yes.



Caught the sun today - yay! Real, actual, direct sunshine turning my face a different colour. Bloody hell, I’ve missed that. Not that Hong Kong isn’t bright - it just isn’t the same. Green fields, trees, sheep - horses - horses - and shitloads of stuff that I’d forgotten about. Sometimes, moving back to England wouldn’t be so bad. And sometimes it would.

Caught up with Doctor bloody Who and all that that means. And a place in the winter, for dignity. Or not - as it seems The God Who Is Stephen Moffat kind of let me down a bit with his season six opening two-parter. Not saying it was bad - it just wasn’t as explained or fleshed-out as much as it could have been.

That’s about it - just to let the masses know that reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated and I will be back to blog more as soon as I know what day I’m on. Time’s different on different continents, dontchaknow - and I can never keep up. It’s ok, though. It’s all wibbly-wobbly.

Soopytwist.

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