Well it’s nice to know that, even when I’m writing in my sleep, I’m actually full of love and joy.
Underneath all the bitterness and swearing, of course.
Easter Monday meant the first trip down to see my parents this year. We packed a picnic lunch (which was very nice) and I got into an argument with my mother (which wasn’t nice, but probably to be expected).
We struggle to sit in the same room for a few hours without getting into an argument about something. This time it was about institutionalising the mentally handicapped (for the record, I’m on the con side). Strange subject to arise, but Donald Trump does tend to segue into exactly this sort of discussion.
Despite the Easter traffic, I was struck by how much I enjoy and miss long road trips. It used to be a big part of my work, travelling to and from (and between) gigs. Driving was my private space to think and decompress. I could carry out long, imaginary conversations in the privacy of my truck. I could yell, and sing, and hold fleeting friendships with night-time service station attendants.
There’s so much that is passing away in our rush to settle down and find our own place, but hopefully one day we’ll be back to travelling. I think we could both be happy as gypsies.
We may have trouble convincing the cats to come along though…