the motherland

Oh, childrens.

I wish I could tell you that I was one of those people who didn't suffer from jet lag or who waltzed off an international flight looking fresh as a spring effing daisy, but I cannot tell a lie -- when I got home last night my legs looked like softballs stuffed in flesh-colored nylons, my hair was greasier than back bacon and I had a crease on the side of my face about the size and shape of one of my interior coat buttons.

Rode hard, put away wet.

But the travel gods did smile on me, in their own little way. I was off the plane at 11 on the dot, my bag was first out on the carousel and I was home and inside my apartment by 20 minutes past the hour. Incredible. And here we are, 8:47 p.m. the next day, and I am still (somehow) upright. I think this is mostly because things have been so busy that I haven't stopped moving long enough to realize how absolutely exhausted I am.

I've got the craziest tales to spin for you of my time in London, from my late night arrival on Wednesday in the pissing rain to the shenanigans of New Year's Eve (I went from pretending I was British in the queue for the ladies' room to shouting "you're welcome from America" while standing on a bar stool singing none other than "Don't Stop Believin'") to the friends with fake moustaches I made at Monkey Chews and the time I spent wandering Camden, the city and the south bank. I will also need to share with you the harrowing tale of one stomach that simply would not quit; a stomach so brave that it withstood bag after bag of prawn cocktail crisps, biscuit after biscuit, dairy milk after effing dairy milk, pie, and then chips and then oh, GOD, beer. Things were a little touch and go for a while there on Sunday morning, but you'll be relieeeeved to know that I powered through in time to eat a proper roast lunch.

Your first installment will arrive tomorrow. This girl's gotta get some sleep.


cheers,
elizabeth