Getting back into it

There’s a real strangeness to your home when you return from an amazing holiday. The kitchen, the TV, the sofas looking somehow mundane, too normal, like I’m expecting them to have changed colour or something but no, they’re just the same. There’s that ‘home’ smell of musty washing powder; it’s not bad, probably what most people smell when they come round, but we’re so used to it we can’t smell it. When you come back from holiday it’s like you see things new again.

I am sitting here in my pyjamas with my hair tossed up into a crazy whirl after one of those almighty heavy sleeps which leave your body embossed by the creases of the sheets. Over there my suitcase still sits, like a wide open mouth spilling out its contents, and I know I should get started with my work but...

It’s not 8am yet, I think I’ll have some porridge first.

My body is exhausted. Exhausted.

I got in from Queenstown last night. My plane landed at just after 5pm and I thought I want to do some yoga as haven’t done any since Friday. Can I make the 7.30 class? (I always do this and set challenges for myself which are barely possible, but just possible enough). Luckily I got past the customs beagle which is so cute you want to stroke it but know you’ll probably end up with some out of control fine/court case (watching a few too many Banged up Abroad episodes has created an irrational fear of sniffer dogs). What do I mean, luckily. I have nothing to fear. And through customs by 5.36pm, straight onto a train and I was in Circular Quay at 6.09 for the 6.15 fast ferry. Phew just made that, and it was plain sailing across the harbour into Manly. I was so hot still in my UGG boots and ski jacket and my face was stinging from the mix of the morning’s snow and fresh air, sweat and the desiccating aircon on the aeroplane which had turned my lips and nostrils red raw so I went outside to take in the cool frantic night air.

Back home I noticed my little purple flower-pot plant (I really should learn the names of things shouldn’t I?) which I bought at the Harris Farm market because it looked so happy was wilted and sad, its flowers like little dead crisps. I didn’t know what to do first, so I shovelled the first of the washing, socks, ski pants, essential undies into the machine, quickly showered off my body (no time for hair), ran my little purple flower-pot plant under the tap gently, though the water just ran straight through. I don’t know, will that bring it back to life…? I pulled on my yoga stuff and headed to the yoga centre.

What a strange class. Through my first sun salute I felt like I wasn’t in control of my body. I felt like I had no connection to what I was doing. But I persevered, hoping things would get more connected. I just felt more and more tired, every muscle and bone gently ached but I moved and moved. Finally savasana, and I felt like I was suspended on top of my mat, leaden but okay, satified. That gentle exhiliration of total exhaustion after 3 days of snowboarding and a strong yoga class. I took that feeling home and more or less passed out, sleeping and sleeping, my body yielding completely to the bed.

I dreamt of Gary, the silver/grey RSPCA tabby cat last night. In my dream he was no longer at the RSPCA and there were all these other, smaller crazed looking cats jumping up at me. I think I need to call the RSPCA and find out what’s happened to Gary, if anything.

And now, my porridge. The taste of home, of my funny little daily routine. I had muffins and scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning at the hotel. I mean those hotel breakfast buffets, however unappetising they look (and this one wasn’t too bad) are so hard to resist and they’re not healthy either.

And after the sleep with the sun flooding my kitchen, my purple flower, he’s looking better now too.

Back to the routine now. It’s getting easier.