Going Home

imageI’m on the train back to Birmingham after a lovely few days doing very little at my mum’s. The weather is glorious (who knew that sunshine actually happens in Manchester!) and I’m regretting the fact that I decided to wear my big padded coat that I affectionately refer to as my sleeping bag – I’m beginning to get a little uncomfortable but don’t want to take it off as I am wearing my scruffy clothes that are now covered in dog hair, thanks to spending three days being mauled by my family’s various canine friends. Luckily, I’ve managed to bag myself a seat at the back, despite the fact that the train is so busy that lots of people are being forced to stand for their journey, and I also happen to be sitting next to a very attractive man (seriously, this guy is gorgeous) who is quietly dozing in his business suit.

It’s been a nice few days – me and mum have spent a lot of time doing what we do best: fighting over the TV remote (I hate Coronation Street, she hates Jeremy Kyle), eating homemade panini’s (she could make a fortune if she decided to market these – they’re amazing) and generally talking nonsense at each other about anything and everything. It’s been very relaxed, and mum has slept a lot, which I think she needed as her job is extremely stressful.

Someone has opened some sort of sandwich, and now the whole carriage smells really strongly of onion. Mr Gorgeous next to me is twitching in his sleep, and I’m hoping that it doesn’t end up like those scenes you see in the movies where someone accidentally falls asleep on the shoulder of the stranger next to him.

On Saturday we went to my sister’s flat to celebrate her birthday. As she’s self -conscious about her weight and likes to live a healthy lifestyle, there was a distinct lack of alcohol available, so we went across the road to the supermarket, where my sister was promptly chatted up by a rather good looking cashier. Nothing new there then – she attracts lots of attention when we go out, even when she’s in her sweats, but I took solace in the fact that I work with sixth-formers who look older than this young man did. We had a lovely meal cooked by her boyfriend, and then spent some time playing with her pug puppy, Dougal, who seems to have doubled in size every time I see him. I also requested a song for her on Steve’s Talk About Pop Music Blog Radio show – Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ which made her blush furiously because my mum was there. Hilarious, or at least my youngest sister and I thought it was.

Today, I met up with my oldest friend, who I’ve known pretty much from the first day of high school, which is about 23 years. I still find it amazing that, despite the fact I haven’t seen her since her mum’s funeral a year ago, we sat and chatted for several hours as if we saw each other yesterday, and as she has a blog where she shares some of her amazing poetry I introduced her to the joys of #SundayBlogShare and showed her how to use Pinterest to save ideas for redecorating her spare room. I’m very lucky to have such a friendship – there are very few people who I truly feel that I can genuinely be relaxed and totally myself with, and with her I know I can say anything without fear of judgment. And, with the history that we have, she knows everything about me – I don’t have to explain any backstories, and she’s been with me through the lot.

Tomorrow, it’s back to work. I’ve had a nice two weeks, although I couldn’t actually give much detail on anything I’ve really accomplished.

So, for the rest of the journey I’m going to jump onto #SundayBlogShare and check out the hundreds of fabulous posts that have already been shared today… Don’t forget about my anniversary competition too!

27 thoughts on “Going Home

  1. I was so hoping you’d write about your trip up north, after all the talk about the train ride to see your mum. it sounds like you’re able to really go home when you go home – know what I mean?

  2. Umm I think you stole our sunshine, do you think we could have it back please? It all disappeared by 4.00PM and is now blowing a bitter wind.

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