I'm sitting in my room in London with comically large headphones on, writing, listening to tunes and keeping one eye on the Red Sox game. The game's muted; Fox has the broadcast and I can't take that level of stupid on my own time. I say it's my room. It's not, really. My room is in Scotland. I'm in the room I stay in while staying at my parent's house. It serves mostly as my mom's office. On the shelves next the desk I see a picture of her with her sister and a card I sent her for Mothers Day. But there's a bed and I sleep in it, so for the time being it's my room.
It's a job that brings me south, a temporary contract at a small and rather lovely wine company in West London. It looks like this is the beginning of a more significant move for me, back to a city I used to know better. There's a lot to do in the meantime. I've got this job, I've got a book to write, I've got to fly to France at the end of August, all the time looking for a permanent job and splitting time between Scotland and London.
I've got a page in my notebook devoted to a scrawled calendar, dotted with question marks and asterisks. There are can't-miss events and shouldn't-miss birthdays. If I've not looked at the page for a day or two, it takes me awhile to decipher. Such is the next three months. Written on paper and sound in theory, but nothing set in stone.
It will all be fine. I'm not stressed, though going from unemployed and the odd bar shift to this is certainly a change. It's a change for the better. But I miss the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves and my cat asleep at my feet.