Ah. Travel. I do love it, but I secretly despise it too. I have come to the realisation that I do actually love my home. It doesn’t really matter where that home is, as long as The BF and I are there. And I have sharp knives.
Why does no-one in England have sharp knives? It’s the bane of my existence. I massacre tomatoes to a bloody pulp. It’s shameful. I’m embarrassed. Poor tomatoes.
This trip has been good for my soul. It’s being good as we speak, and it’s being so very challenging as well. It’s making me step up to the plate, so to speak. I’ve got to organise things, I’ve got to keep myself off the streets, and worst of all, I’ve got to meet new people. URghlegurgle.
In theory I love meeting new people. I’m just not very good at it. The worst bit is, everyone thinks I am. Once I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, it’s true, i can talk for hours non stop, even in the face of blatant opposition. But before then, I find it possibly the most stressful process ever. I’m obsessed with making it seem as though I find it easy. I much prefer the I-already-know-you-quite-well phase.
Ah. Yes. Travel does bring out the best and most interesting in people. For example, The BF has upped the ante sleep-talking wise. He spent about ten minutes rabbiting away last night about Oh Comely magazine. I’ve never heard about it, but he’s convinced it exists. He then ended his tirade with a glorious “You’ve missed out baby, BIG TIME!” and then snored his head off.