Where the Heart Is

A Green and Peasant Land, Yesterday

45 days exactly. That's how long it's taken. It struck me a couple of days ago, when I felt a strange discomfort in my general demeanour. I paid it no attention. "I'm having a bad day", I thought, "it'll pass." It didn't.

Then, on Saturday (08/11/08), I received an email from a friend. I won't be so indiscreet as to divulge the sender or contents of the email, but it was from one of my favourite people, and I hadn't heard from him in quite a while.

Finally, on Sunday, It happened: I discovered why I'd been feeling so restless, lately. I'm homesick.

Now, I'm not talking the kind of homesick which changes one's personality: moping about at home or in my room, barely eating, bursting into tears whenever I hear something which tenuously reminds me of a vaguely British institution (e.g. Boots, Sainsbury's or the BBC). I'm talking about the kind of homesick which involves poring over friends' facebook pages, desperately trying to discern every last movement of theirs in order to feel up to date with their lives. Somewhere between "taking a keen interest" and "stalking". More towards the latter, though.

Don't get me wrong, I love being here: a different "botellón" every week, pork galore and chatting at length in the street without fear of losing one's testicles to the cold. I just wish I could share my newfound pleasures with those nearest and dearest left behind in Old Blighty. You know who you are; and if you aren't, that phrase was vague enough for you to think you are without being disappointed...

So, what, apart from hair-raisingly risky low-budget flights to Gatwick, episodes of Doctor Who on YouTube, and calling the speaking clock, is the only remedy for this ailment? I either GET OVER IT, or finally fling open my doors to the masses. Yes, the Edict of Grace is over, and the Inquisition shall begin.

In simpler words, visit Sanya. Come and have a go, if you think you're hard enough...