Up at seven to stick things in a bag and drive to the airport. Stop on the way to say goodbye to the neighbours and the dogs.
Airport, coffee, security, more coffee, magazine, bee-line across the tarmac, and – success! – a seat with decent leg-room. Stick jacket in overhead locker. Sit down. Belt up. Take out magazine.
Unbelt, stand up, remove jacket from overhead locker. Find glasses. Reverse entire process until belted up again. Put on glasses. Bing-bong. Remove glasses. Safety demo. And suddenly I'm on my way from one world to another.
But it's not like life in Corca Dhuibhne and life in Bermondsey are totally different, or that I lead different existences in each. Instead they're locked and linked, like stones in a wall, each supporting the other and making a powerful whole. Or so I like to think.
Tea this morning in Woolfson & Tay, and a walk down to More London. Wonder what Spot would make of the Bermondsey St. dogs? Probably see them as a crowd of sissies, poncing about in their leopardskin collars. But maybe not. Her pups are gone now, off to their new homes, and she doesn’t seem to be suffering from empty shed syndrome. Actually, she looks more like she’s about to get a haircut, a French manicure, and sign up to the gym. So maybe she'd fit right in.