Home

Finally. After almost 24 hours in various states of unrest at New York's JFK airport, I boarded my seventeenth flight of the trip.

At the ungodly hour of half past six this morning, Virgin Atlantic flight VS4 broke through the cloud above Heathrow and skittered along the runway. Passport checked, baggage collected, impatiently striding through arrivals to where the mother was waiting to collect me.

Within half an hour we were home and I was barking "woo woo woo! doggles!" through the letter box. Cast of Glee aside (maybe), no one does 'welcome home' like two Labradors. After two sleepless nights; one on the airport floor, one upright in Virgin's compensatory extra legroom seat (just the ticket for a 5 ft 3 girl), by 8am, I was showered and heading for bed. "Going to have a little nap, just an hour or two." I told the mother, before dropping into something resembling a coma until the late afternoon.

It was a little strange going to my room, opening drawers and seeing clothes that hadn't been touched since, well, probably since my sister last rifled through them. But still, when you've been living in the same basic wardrobe for eight months, rotating the same old tops, dresses and shorts, seeing the stuff you left behind feels a bit strange. Like, why did I ever have these clothes in the first place? What purpose did those jeans hold before I upped, left, and got my legs out for three quarters of a year? When did I wear that? After eight months of longing for the contents of my home wardrobe, tonight it was still my backpack supplying the clothes for the welcome home meal. 

And ah, tonight. What else could a girl want, long for, dribble over in her sleep when she's half way around the world? Typically British, every family has their favourite, the one that does it better than the others: the local curry house. Forget coffee and TV - give me poppadoms and champagne in small, perfectly sized doses (the curry, that is).

So, here I am. Back in London. Back in a house, back to my re-decorated room. Back to life with parents and the one-glance-wonder-I-disapprove-look, back to a cooked breakfast every Sunday, back to living a 20 minute drive away from the Boyfriend. Back to wondering what to do with my evening. Back to having friends around the corner. Back to cloud, back to rain (I expect), back to red buses, high heels, the Mini Cooper, Eastenders, and - of course - the familiar streets of what is still my favourite city just one overpriced, packed tube ride away.

Back to life with a small portion of precious alone time each day. Back to time for blogging. Blogging, that is, without Buzz Lightyear flying around my head, announcing his plans to save the galaxy.

Don't ask. Or, actually, just don't take your Boyfriend souvenir shopping in Toys 'R' Us.

The re-integration begins.