But why is there no more holiday?

[desperance]

So Karen had this fabulous party yesternight, with a dozen lovely people who ate all my chocolate beetroot cake entirely; and I read "Quinquereme of Nineveh", which is the story I wrote last time I was here, and "2Π To Live", which is the story I wrote this week; and otherwise we just sat around in the clubhouse and drank drinks and talked and such. Oh, and laughed lots. I remember lots of laughing.

And then there was the going-to-bed thing, and the necessary sleeping; and now it is morning, and Karen will be home in an hour for lunch, and then she will take me to the airport.

And my shoulder is seizing up, and I have no appetite even for coffee, and y'know what? I don't want to go. Very very seriously, I do not want to go. This has only been an idyll, I do know that, a pause between drafts of my novel, drafts of my serious life; and even so. Don't wanna.

Comments

[lamentables]

But, but? You only just got there; how can it be time to come home again?