When the plane touched down in Heathrow with a gentle bounce, I was flooded with thoughts about what home really is and, more importantly, where it is. And I suddenly had tears in my eyes. It was mostly me questioning whether I could really think of London as any more of a home than Prague, and seeing as I had to leave London because my existence there was almost certainly killing me slowly but surely, I had to admit, that London felt more like a familiar yet sometimes hostile friend. And I then thought of the town I was born in, and how I don't have time to go there while in the UK this time, so I won't be able to see my sister or any other relatives/family friends there and I felt like, yes, I'd feel a huge familiarity there and of course I'd feel really happy to see my sister, if it were possible, but it's not home.
Of all things, I ultimately had an imagined conversation in my head with my Mum, whereby I was trying to justify what things I'd done and not managed to do. I was saying to her in my head, that yes, I have reached my mid-thirties and I failed to make London work for me, but I have come a long way from the background she grew up in. And I may not have made a great success of it, but at least I've fought time and time again to avoid the safe option, the default option, and I've pushed to do something more challenging instead. I may not have succeeded in proving that it's worth doing that, but I have at least tried it, with the spirit of a pioneer and the bravery that comes from years of doing things on my own and knowing that being an outsider is painful but there is a kind of freedom that comes from already having been ostracised, so there's no loss in leaving people behind.
I was very tired indeed when I got into Heathrow, so I have to put some of my over-emotional state down to that, but it was such a strange feeling. Just setting foot in the UK again caused a monumental re-assessment of what I've achieved and what price I've paid for what I've endeavoured to do. In the queue at Border control, I was reminded of one of the few endearing qualities about the British: a sense of humour in the face of sheer incompetence, tedium and difficulty. The electronic passport system was a note of confusion for some, and the queue for those still without one (that would include me) seemed both long and slow-moving, but the family behind me, who sounded like they were from up north somewhere, just made light-hearted jokes about it all and it made me smile.
Even the Border control officer made me smile as he announced that families could come forward in a group, only to realise, as I alone approached the desk, that I was not a part of a family. Indeed, if he'd have asked, I could have told him that trying to get our family together all in one country would take quite some doing these days. But he just 'welcomed me back to the UK' by name (a smart move on the 'final check for note of recognition' illegal passport holder detection front) and I felt sort of at home, but also partly in some kind of surreal world of luggage and passports. When it came to baggage reclaim, a dimly-lit twilight zone that gave me a feeling of deja-vu because I could swear I'd dreamt of being in a baggage area just like it, though in fact I had never set foot in Terminal 5 before, I really did feel like I was mid-transfer between the recent familiar world and the old known.
So, the tiredness of 4.5 hours' sleep last night and not much more than 5 or 6 the previous few nights, took their toll and I still felt half in the Czech Republic, at least in my head, when I had a strong urge to tell a shop assistant in Boots later, ,,na schledanou" as I left. (Woe betide you if you don't do this in the Czech Republic.) I suppose I'll adjust better tomorrow. In the meantime, I have some absolutely beautiful flowers to greet me when I wake up:
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