There's no place like home. That's true, but there's also no place like a Turkish prison, so the absolute value of the observation is questionable.
Mrs O and I are just back from a wonderful week in Spain (sorry, Catalonia). I had a gerr-ate time, and now of course I must atone for my sins by being miserable and questioning the worth of my quotidian surroundings and duties.
I was actually looking forward to getting home this time. September is a time when you make your peace with the world, if you're from the northern hemisphere that is. When the earth initially hurtles past the halfway point in its summer route around the sun, you rail against the shortening of the days. But very quickly, Knut-style, you realise the futility of this position, and embrace the changing of the seasons. I'd been planning winter jaunts as a result of this change of heart, but even this wasn't enough the protect me from the outrageous tedium that my job entails.
The brain and the face are in accord as I type: life is grim. All is fatigue and ennui. Still, a glass of sherry might pep me up, so it's not all ill-tidings.
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