I've been back home for nearly a week, and I'm in a strangely positive mood. It's tempered, obviously, by not being on holiday anymore, oh, and having to go to work and, oh yeah, a couple of days ago I drunkenly dropped my left contact lens down the sink and spent half a fucking hour with my hand up a stinking pipe pulling out clumps of pungent grey slurry at three in the morning finding nothing but backache and a swiftly erupting hangover. My new eye test is now booked for this week.
My twenty-odd bedbug and mosquito bites are subsiding, I've done three lots of washing since my return, spent a Saturday night ironing shirts, tidied my room, and done my utmost to enjoy evenings free of writing a shit (Ha!) novel.
It hasn't helped that 50% of said novel feedback has been "Look at it this way; at least you've finished something." All other comments ranged around immature, or poor character development, and a somewhat disturbed opinion of my state of mind; Pretty much all the things that'll make you wish you never go near your endeavours again.
But I couldn't care less. I've had a pleasant break of no sex where I realised I look like an ageing elephant in all the photographs (because the camera was pointed at an ageing elephant), so I've put myself on a diet.
Granted, a quiet weekend of wine, fags, pizza, crisps, a small homemade chocolate brownie, two custard doughnuts and a dozen ricecakes to make amends doth not a healthy regime make, but it's Sunday night and thus I'm back on the sushi.
I'm attempting to cycle to work for the rest of the year, and cut out all the crap, and, more important than that, quit my job. I feel that with a 'book' under my (large) belt, I can leave. I have no idea what for, but it's got to be for more money, and less hours, and at least one member of staff with a womb.
And with all these things in mind, I'm feeling pretty optimistic for once.
Yeah, okay, give it a week.
On the way to Ljubljana. Art installation, or someone's outdoor kitchen?
Goodbye, potential future king, hello First World War.
Mid-air whinging idiot.
Barely alive Croatian cat.
Cavtat, end of the line.
You might well think this is us. I couldn't possibly comment.