Write a post about any topic you wish, but make sure it ends with “And all was right in the world.”
I was woken this morning by the sound of a family loading the last of its kids and its gear into the car for the long trip home, and I rolled over and thanked whatever gods there be that it wasn’t me, as it had been for many years.
It’s the last Saturday in January, the end of the summer holidays, the day of the general tourist exodus. The day when most people return to their ‘real’ lives: to work, to school, to the relentlessness of the daily grind.
I realise, of course, that a lot of people don’t see it this way. For them, a holiday is a pleasant interlude in their pleasant lives, and it says a lot about my life at the time that I wasn’t one of them. But for me, this day was a little death: the recurrent fear that I would never be back for the me I left behind.
But I did come back, this time for good (or at least until advanced decrepitude makes it untenable). So this morning, as I do every year on this day, I rolled over and thought how lucky I was that this was home – that for me, all was right in the world.