Home sick

A friend reminded me that I hadn't written in a while.

I guess I've bitten off way more than I can chew. I'm enjoying almost all of it though. Except for the bout of 'flu. And the dull heavy thud of the realisation that this house is too big for one person to live in. Don't get me wrong. I love living alone. I'd rather live alone in a place big enough for one person, is all. Sometimes, after more than twelve hours of meeting after meeting with different kinds of people, for different kinds of reasons, you don't want to come home to a house wrecked by kittens, ALL of which you have to clean yourself. And it certainly doesn't help to come home one night to a disoriented injured cat, and realise that you have to do this yourself. All. Night. Long.
Night. After. Night.

For someone who has so far had no issues with being alone, this is my first experience with loneliness. It turns out, a writer's life is not so enviable. I am reminded of that movie about William Forrester, only, I'm far younger, far less cynical and not half the writer that he was. There are times when I want to run back to the luxury of a big family house, where clothes seem to miraculously wash themselves, and all I have to do for breakfast, is walk down the stairs. This is probably the only time I am going to put down in writing that I miss my mother all the time. And the warm company of my dogs. And the cheeky humour of a lungi-wearing, cricket-watching, filter-coffee-drinking father.

Nevertheless, I doubt I ever will go back for good.