It's nice to go out . . .

. . . but it's nice to come home. Particularly when you've been travelling for the best part of 18 hours. Both flights were fine, but the four-hour wait in Heathrow was a killer. My body protested at the lack of sleep and mile-long hike between terminals via a dank subterranean maze by both emitting and attracting that special Heathrow grime -- a sticky, slimy blackness that can't be removed with soap alone, or at least not the soap on offer in the toilets. PJ had headed off to face passport application hell, so I had no company (or lounge access) for the interminable wait. Definitely a reminder not to do connecting flights again. Or lose a passport.

Anyway, I'm home now. I have a strong cup of tea besides me, Philip Glass is playing Metamorphosis 1-4 (it's like being back on Caprica, BG fans!), and I can run a bath and make a hot water bottle and then fall into bed for some blessed sleep -- but only when the apartment's warmed up. It's freezing here! At this moment, I find it hard to believe that only 36 hours ago I was standing on the beach at Carmel, watching the sun set over the Pacific. And when I figure out how to get the photos off the standards-defying Sony camera, I'll show you just how beautiful that was.