I rode the bus back today from Oxford, after being magically snowed in with a bunch of fellow Yellowknifers. By magical coincidence, I found myself on Sunday in front of a roaring fire, eating a turkey dinner, watching snow fall with people who had known me from before I was actually born. Through a fateful turn of events, a roaring snowstorm prevented me from returning to London, and our time together was lengthened before I eventually had to take a chance on the transport and return to my real life.
On the journey home, I felt that special kind of heartache that only someone living far form home has when they come close to touching their old life without leaving their new one. The security of those relationships is wonderful to baske in, when you come upon it, and when you leave its comforting arms you can’t help but feel cold and vulnerable.
I can’t help but feel sad today, like a hangover from the drunken comfort of the luxury of being amongst yellowknifers in the UK, and my hangover only seemed to grow as I wove my way through the empty ghost city london had become when I got back. The snow today makes it look so much like home, but I know it isn’t.