My back’s only just stopped hurting from lugging hefty great shell of a bag across London that’s certainly pulled my spine into an unhealthy bend. Now I have the gentleman behind me’s kneecaps prodding into me through the airplane seats.
I had to eat a bag of popcorn rather furiously as we boarded to stop myself from crying. It all got a little overwhelming, realising that this is it. And if I’m eating, I can’t cry. Logic.
But yeah… this is it. This actually is it. I’m actually on the plane now. My bag’s in the hold (hopefully). My name’s been removed from the council tax and someone else has moved into my house in Bristol. I’ve left my job. I’ve actually got to go. I’ve made such a bloody fuss about leaving that I have to bloody go.
AND IT STILL DOESN’T FEEL REAL.
I don’t know where my body thinks it is, or what it thinks we’re doing. Actually at the moment it seems to be shutting down – I can quite literally feel the exhaustion pounding behind my eyeballs.
Staring out the window at a very grey Heathrow, I can’t yet comprehend that I’m not going to be seeing this now until June, and that tomorrow’s view is going be one I’ve never seen before.
AND THERE IT IS – A GLIMPSE INTO WHY I SET OFF ON THIS JOURNEY IN THE FIRST PLACE.
I’ve been so preoccupied with tying up loose ends on this side, on making sure I’ve said proper goodbyes and have packed enough Imodium to last me a lifetime, that I’ve let my worries and concerns and fears completely cloud the reason why I’m going travelling. I was even thinking, as I walked down the aisle to 48A: Why am I even doing this?
It’s as if I’ve been running on other people’s support up until this point, their words of encouragement spurring me on and reassuring me. But it’s just me now – me and my thoughts for the next 27 hours (until get there). It’s time to (try) and relax. It’s time to breathe. It’s time to travel.
Oh nice. Knee-man behind me has just farted.