No Place Like

There was one square foot of blue amidst the blanket of cloud, cloud that soon erupted into a torrent of precipitation that lashed the windows of the taxi. I peeked out between the raindrops, as we took the last roundabout towards the long, long road that leads to the long, long lane that leads to the yard. The ground would be pure muck underfoot, and I wasn’t entirely certain, despite sleeping through the night and rising without too much trouble, that my jet lag was entirely gone. One more ride, I thought, and I’d be free and clear. Tuesday had passed in fairly groggy manner, with the night’s lesson serving to get me at least three-quarters of the way back down to terra firma. I’d slog through that muck, and hope that the pony campers were done with the indoor, and then, then, I’d be fully and completely home.

They were, and I was.

The rain stopped as I made my way down the long, long lane to the long, long road, to the roundabouts and the busy roads that wended their way to my bus stop. Funny, the walk didn’t seem as long as it usually did. As another welter of threatening cloud scudded overhead, I smiled at the lady who let me jog across the road in front of her Peugeot, and made it to the stop ahead of the 63 back to town. I sat back, stripping off my half chaps and changing into my heavier boots, and ate some of the lunch I couldn’t manage earlier in the day. All was well. I was home.

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