To think about travelling home, visiting the town and the place where I grew up, fills me with different kinds of feelings and thoughts. Some of them are worries, but the majority of mental connections are happy thoughts. And that's not only because home is filled with memories of a time when I didn't have to make life-changing decisions, a time when time didn't fly away like it does today, but also because of the people that make home as good as it is.
My flight was in the early evening. After what happened on my last trip a few weeks ago I decided to pay a little extra and book a flight at a more convenient time this time. It wasn't outrageously more expensive, but it was still noticable and I remember thinking that it was the price that I'm paying for getting old. Not so much physically, but on a nervous level I sometimes feel like I'm a little grandpa already. So I left my flat in the afternoon today.
And as it turned out, it didn't make much of a difference. I mean, sure, I took the train from St. Pancras instead of Victoria and I saved a thirty-minute bus ride. But the thing is, at that time of day it wouldn't have been so bad. Of course, it was a hassle at four in the morning, when there was no direct train connection from St. Pancras, and I had to get up at a hideous time, but today, leaving at a lazy four pm, a little bus ride might've been nice even.
So I got to the airport on time and took the same seat in the upper floor waiting area that I had taken the last time. I looked around - there was a kid chasing another kid, an elderly couple peacefully being old, and over there, a young business man with shiny shoes that matched his untimely bald head - and realised that once you're there, it becomes irrelevant what time of day it is. It looked the same, smelled the same, even gave me the same headache.
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