Jet lag I think, is a little like being almost five. We run around and squeal a bit and hug anyone who stands still long enough, but at the same time we don’t really understand what’s going on. They could give us a train that should have spelled our name and instead they could use the letters to say something vaguely rude and we’d be happily oblivious too.
And we, like them, manage to remain happy through it all until that point where fatigue finally takes over, although unlike them hopefully age and experience means that we sink into silence rather than compound the issue:
Lily: Mr Nine won’t let me throw the ball to him.
Lily’s Mum: Well Papa will throw the ball with you.
Lily: But Papa’s a grown-up.
Papa (in his most consoling tone): I am quite immature though Lily.
Lily loudly now (and sobbing with her heart truly broken): I don’t even know what immature means!
I am not sure what anything means at the moment, but this world is spinning faster than the way we remember it. In a few days the spinning may stop and we will try to work out how we got here.