So, here's the thing. How many words do I have to write for a blog post to count for National Blog Posting Month?
Because I have a half-written existential post about where home is and stuff scribbled in my notebook, but I am just too tired to put it into decent English.
It's been a long day - six hours of trying to ram English grammar into some Belgian brains (tongue between your teeth, I need to see your tongue - yes, that's it - no, not a "d" sound, no, no, not a "f", no, no, not a "z"... never mind...); packing; Eurostar journey during which I no doubt irritate everyone by laughing out loud at the latest Best of the Left podcast - particularly the British section.
Then after arriving in London, poking my nose in a bookshop and a Costa (oh the smells of home) I had the most enjoyable Indian meal I've ever had. Impeccable service with a smile; stylish plates; free Tia Maria; free chocolate; glasses that were refilled with tap water without our having to ask. AND the food was nice. Way to go, Clapham Tandoori. Or so I would say if I were, in fact, American.
The evening ended with my occasional Friday night ritual - a random Bradley Whitford film: Bottle Shock this one. There was France, and there was wine, but sadly... all I will say is, the things we do for the love of an ageing but very lovely actor.
Definitely bedtime now, though.