Irregular

It's a strange feeling, when you're in one place and the people you love and care about are flung about the globe. It's even stranger when you then fling yourself several thousand miles to join whoever, and have to wait to get home to the succulents which may or may not be dying without you, and to the seagulls that keep you awake in the creaking early hours of the morning, and the way you're going to hunch over your desk for the next month to meet a book deadline and wake up halfway through winter with an aching back and cold feet.

You have to wait like a ticking clock to get back to these routines that have wound themselves tightly into your bones, so easy to run away from but incredibly good at pulling you home again.