No matter how glorious our summers are, they draw to a close on a plane making a right turn over Capital to land in Outpost International. Every single year for the last seven years.
This summer has been especially cruel to part with: seeing friends, going on holidays, fun (the sex! the cities! the beaches! the alcohol and the food!) and — above all — the Abode. Every year I would tell myself and Jod that we are at least going back home in the Outpost, where we will be able to be together and close the door behind us. You realise how the existence (and general pleasantness) of the Abode radically changed that.
By the way, weatherwise, too, this was the best summer of my life: no heatwaves, no humidity, just clement breezes and reasonably summery temperatures, with the occasional July downpour.
The state of our Outpost home was not rosy, either: still no hot water — not that it is particularly needed, dust accumulated over weeks of absence, unpaid bills, unanswered very official letters demanding our “immediate response” (thankfully, the worst was averted), half a kilo of sand draining through the washing machine filter (I have no idea how it got in it in the first place), and — above all — some extremely distressing news about a colleague’s cancer diagnosis. This last news somehow put things into perspective, as they say, in death’s unmistakably blunt and forceful and banal way.
Anyway, now that I am here I am looking forward to seeing Dæmion,the Dancer, eV, One of the Seven and What’s-his-Name — that distinguished member of the Russian nobility.