There is something really odd about being a tourist in your own town. The all you can eat breakfast is incredible, my only regret is not staying an extra night to sample more stuff tomorrow.
I managed to get a good haul of Belfast/Irish souvenirs and trinkets to take back to Scotland with me. Decorating my flat with travel trophies is my new pastime.
The weather here has been typical for the entire duration of my stay. But still the sense of familiarity and slowly revolving doors of change remind me that here too life goes on.
I didn’t get to see everyone I wanted to see, there just isn’t enough time.
I am reminded of those giant breakfasts in America. Running around trying to find wifi to stay connected to the outside world. I am reminded of airport hotels, adventures just about to be made, adventures just gone.
I realise sitting here that I have gone for what I always go for. Such a creature of habit.
I am on my way now to meet my friend’s new twins. Basically the very reason for my trip. I wanted to see them before they grew out of their I’m so tiny I can’t do anything phase.
Who knows how old they will be when I next return.
Sitting on the airport bus on the way back to the airport, I realise though life continues nothing is the same.
I sit with my bag of souvenirs and realise I am now reduced to a meer over seer. How, weirdly, I look forward to returning to Scotland and sleeping in my own sweet bed, in my sometimes freezing sometimes boiling flat, with my amazing neighbours who like pixies in the night clear snow off my car and leave presents at my door.
How did home change its mind? When did that even happen?