I haven't spoken to anybody today, so it seems like a good moment to wrap up these excerpts from my old diary. After my uninspiring day on Capri, I had one final rainy day watching the sun loungers get soaked on the terrace, then I packed my things and started the long journey home. This is the last one of these...
The rain streaked across the windows as the little train sped from Gatwick along a drab and weary route. I was loving it.
Home, well, the Surrey countryside anyway, smelled fresh and wet and, well, like England. If Elgar's cello concerto had filled the carriage I don't think I'd have felt any happier.
Apparently, there have been a few storms in teacups while I've been away. How glad am I that I didn't have access to facebook this week.
Being away does grant a peculiar perspective. I feel quite lucid, perhaps even untroubled. There's a new sense of passion alive in me and a determination to keep it alive.
It's good to be home.
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