Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home.
Within 35 minutes of landing back at base, from the frozen wastes of Brighton, I had the fire roaring away, the family had decided on pizza for tea, and Sam had sorted out a Brendon Fraser film for us to watch whilst consuming the aforementioned Italian fast food.
Being home is fantastic.
I enjoyed being away. I got a good haircut and beard-trim. I tried on and decided to buy an outrageously snazzy (and most unlike my normal style of) three-piece suit. I had a fantastic time in the sauna which, I am convinced, did me more good than the rest of the three days we had down there put together.
But stone me it was freezing; much colder down there than up here.
I know we are due for a big Siberian freeze (Huge Norm, or some such meteorological name), but them southerners can keep their bloody cold weather, thank you very much.
The party revellers (of which there were a few walking past the seafront at 2am today), sounded loud and boozed up. And it was -3c out there at that time.
What’s the matter with these people?
Speaking of the matter with people…
In the open pedestrian walkway, opposite our hotel, a rough-sleeper (which is what we now call homeless people, apparently, because the phrase ‘rough-sleeper’ doesn’t have the same negativity for politicians that the words ‘homeless on your watch’ do), shivered in a sleeping bag and a duvet.
It cost me £60 to park the car in a warm and cosy underground car park for three days.
That money goes to the Local Authority, who run that car park.
Frankly I would rather have parked the car out on the road and given that £60 to the rough-sleeper.
But the Local Authority doesn’t allow parking out on the road in Brighton.
It’s too unsightly, perhaps?
But not as unsightly as a homeless person shivering in a walkway by a car park.
When it’s -3c at night.
So yes, it’s lovely being home.
But right now, I have a nasty taste in the back of my mouth, and it’s nothing to do with the pizza we had earlier.