Coming back

A week of being nearly caffeine-free and three days post my return to England, my heart feels as though it’s beating in my nose and my brain as though it’s been rolled in sherbet.

Highlights of my time-not-here include sun-burning only a small patch of my arse; feral cat charming with stolen mackerel; coming-to from a poolside nap to find myself dribbling on the sunbed, and only having to take two lots of laxative to counter the sugarfat jamboree that was every mealtime.

Such peaks of summer holiday happiness can only be countered with a prolonged and undignified sulk, and a more concerted effort to remember to my pills in the morning. That, and a fuck tonne of watermelon in vain honour of the breakfast buffet.

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Coming back

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