Coming up to six years. And I was a pretentious little shit all that time ago. It's as if I wanted to confuse any readers with the kinds of words usually reserved for thesauruses, definitely not the kind of language a person would rationally utter.
I miss writing but I don't miss making the time for writing. I suppose I miss parts of England but I don't miss England. I refer to it as home as I've lived more of my life there than I have here in the US, but it doesn't feel like home any more. Just a place my family lives and where delicious snack foods keep out of reach for me to indulge in.
But, for two weeks, I will gorge. I will be filled with Twiglets and saveloys and Ribena and Peperamis and steak crisps and shandy. I will want to implode and then I will remember that once I leave, once I shove all the spare food I can into the suitcases, that this is jolly well it for my indulgences, for my childhood delicacies, for my comfort food, for another few years or so. A fifty pound suitcase may well be filled with snacks. For the cost of a second suitcase ($25? $50?) it's cheaper than air mail.
Between now and arriving I have apparently $300 of digital content I could buy. I need a mobile phone, I want a snooker video game, I'd like some DVDs of dark comedies and dramas that might never make it over here. A part of me is disgusted at being excited by so much stuff that is basically information pressed onto a disc, a lazy tangible product, but the other part is very happy and just having some more British stuff.
It's odd. Can I say I'm an Anglophile but without a feeling of identity for the country I was born and raised in? Does that make sense?