One gets out of bed one day, sits around for the duration of at least the next and then some more, moves from bus to bus to aeroplane to aeroplane to tram to train to bus to train to taxi as the brain fog increases until eventually rational thought seems to require more effort than its worth. We pretend we’re used to it though, and bumble our way through the day(s), arriving in Luneville and gratefully collapse once again into a bed for the first time in more than forty hours.
There, we sleep fitfully and wake during the night in what, judging by the disarray of our surroundings appears to be one of our grandchildren’s bedrooms. The absence of Lego pieces piercing bare feet mid-stagger to the bathroom in the dark only adds to the disorientation, but as the first warm rays of morning sun begin to peek through the crack in the blackout shades it is more than the day that dawns.
With the new day comes the realisation that we have arrived, or we have almost arrived, that the stuff spread around the room is ours, and that despite appearances the place has not been trashed while we slept. No matter how carefully we pack there is always one item that is necessary for the night that has somehow found it’s way into a crevice beneath every thing else in our bag, and no matter how carefully we remove the things above it, the result is always the same.
The carpet swirls, no doubt deliberately designed to minimise staining in the event of spillage of all manner of unseemly fluids, do nothing to take from the untidiness, but we don’t even notice them in our haste to find breakfast and be gone.
One more taxi ride, one more rental car drive and we are on our way to Xures and the boat.
By lunch time we were in Lagarde.
Home.
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