It always surprises me how uncompromising my brain is: I thought one of the only advantages of my sixty one hour journey from Melbourne to London would be that, surely, no other voyage of lesser length would ever seem long again.
Nope.
My trip home from Edinburgh will take approximately three hours forty minutes: and fuck if my brain isn't going to scream and whine 'I'm bored!' every single second of the way. I should explain that, at any given time, I have about three different 'voices' in my head: Melodrama, who's currently kicking against the proverbial back of the hypothetical driver's seat of my brain and muling 'are we there yet?!'; Logic, who's countering that we survived much worse not six months ago, but whose voice is, sadly, much quieter than Melodrama's; and, my favourite, The Journalist, who's using his energy more constructively to write this post.
It should also be noted that Melodrama, despite moaning about how bored he is, is also refusing to do the logical thing and go to sleep; annoyingly, so is Logic. I didn't get very much sleep last night, because my end of term christmas party lasted so late into the night. Ha, no. I was actually, surprisingly enough, cleaning- mainly so I'll be able to tell if someone breaks in while I'm away (this would not have been evident in my flat's pre-cleaning state): in the process I unearthed several nostalgic items- chief among them, the goodbye poem Charlotte and Simon wrote for me- which lead to a bout of, what else, narcissistic introspection which Melodrama really wants to write about, but, luckily for you, the thumbs are the domain of The Journalist.
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