On the outside, I am a non-descript business traveller sitting on an airplane, smartly dressed and a bit dazed from the early morning start, on the inside, I am lost. A week has gone by since my fuse-blowing weekend, and there have been enough washloads to hang, nappies to change, and bills to pay to force-land me back down on Earth.
Here’s a revelation (someone call Hello Magazine, quick): I am not young, carefree and single. No, wait, I am single apparently. Even if, when T crouched to cuddle our daughter yesterday, a familiar urge to bend down and kiss the soft skin at the back of his neck virtually keeled me over. Old habits die hard… Is three and a half months old though?
These three and a half months seem to have stretched into an eternity, a rough sea of overwhelming emotions buffeting me like a piece of driftwood (or is it an old plastic bag?). I no longer know who I am, or what I want.
Right now, I am eight kilometres above the ground, with no-one in sight to ask “are we there yet?” every twenty seconds, or wipe their snotty nose on my trouser legs -unless, of course, the cabin crew decided to surprise me… I fasten my seat belt and get ready for landing.