I’m tired, fussy, dizzy, bored and unhappy. All together. Like my son. I didn’t feel like coming back this time. It happens every six months, we go to Spain for six weeks, to see the family (and friends). I’m usually done with the trip by week number four. But this time, I didn’t really want to come back. I was quite happy and content back home. And that may be it, the term home. Before I had a lovely apartment in my favorite neighborhood in Chicago (as I delete “u”s I realize I still write with a British accent). My little yellow apartment. It’s still ours, but we don;t live there anymore, we live in a rental apartment in a two flat home, in a different neighborhood. I thought I would get used and like it, but I don’t. I miss my old place. But I can’t go back. I’m trapped here for a while. It’s not the house’s fault, it’s me. I don’t like changes, unless they leave me in a much better position, which was not the case. So I’m sad. And I feel lonely. I am alone, in the sole company of a sleeping one year old. At least he is lovely and warm and funny and smiley. That may brighten my afternoon. When I’m in the mood, I’ll write a vacation post.