I live a life of adventures, I really do.
Only this morning, I hiked through the woods in dainty ballet pumps, washed my hair with something hotel-issued that smelt and felt like washing-up liquid, and narrowly escaped death by Elton John, at the hands of the (blatantly deaf) driver taking me back to Frankfurt airport.
Airport security did not disappoint: I had to put my sunglasses and my cardigan through the X-ray machine to make sure they weren’t really machine guns, ABBA CDs or some other equally lethal weapon…
Anyway, I am safely back home, feeling slightly jaded. The past couple of days felt like I was living somebody else’s life: Going to work, meeting people, sampling the many variations on the theme of Wurst at the canteen, going out for dinner in central Heidelberg, before heading back to the hotel and collapsing on an unfeasibly fluffy duvet.
Rather disappointingly, this interlude in my normal daily grind seems to have added to my general state of confusion rather than cleared my mind. I am sitting on the sofa, looking up at the mountains: They’re still there, but looking different in ever shrinking snow tops (think Britney Spears’ tops, only made of snow).
I look around at the flat, and things are the same but also different, with most of T’s possessions gone now. And no-one but me seems to remember what things looked like before.