What I’m about to say may disturb readers of a sensitive disposition, and they are advised instead to look at pictures of fluffy kittens until normal service is resumed.I can feel it creeping over me again: like a cancer, but without the sympathy. Maybe some of you know the feeling (do you?): why am I here; why have I moved away from my friends, my family, my culture, people who listen to me, the food that I like, {your own personal choice here}, and proper comedy. There seem to be three well-trodden paths which can be taken from this juncture:
(1) Shout at the person you’ve given everything up for (not fair as it’s not really their fault)
(2) Go back home (possible, but you know that “home” is just as crap in its own special way)
(3) Get drunk (yes, the one continuing advantage about being abroad is that the beer is cheaper)
However, I’ve just thought of an entirely new solution (4): destroy things!!!! I was in my mid-teens when punk started in the UK – for which I’ve always been assiduously grateful - but I’m afraid I failed to take full advantage of the possibilities thereof. However, as they say, “it’s never too late”. I have fantasies about smashing up the kitchen, the chairs, the telly - anything that’s immediately to hand, frankly - but so far I’ve only succeeded in punching wooden fences and lampposts. Of course, this isn’t the “me” that people want to see, but, well, as they also tell me, “you shouldn’t bottle your feelings up!!” Now, I’m of the type for whom scenario (3) actually prevents rather than precipitates scenario (4), so I’ve got a large plastic keg of beer at my elbow right now so I can finish writing this before I send the computer south - if you don’t hear from me again you know the beer ran out :-) Cheerio!!
