First, hooray — I was a good citizen about working on the book this week, and I’m on track for finishing the new material by the end of the month. Another week to put together the brightest, shiniest synopsis and cover letter I can manage, and it will be ready to go out well before my next access to 8 1/2 x 11 and domestic U.S. postage.
What else? Oh, I did lose a night working on the book when this kept me in Manchester on Thursday night.
See, I head up there about once a week for work. It’s about the same commute as L.A. to San Diego or D.C. to Philadelphia.
I should have I figured the commute was not meant to be when I stepped out of my building and was nearly knocked down by a gust of wind.
But I figured, you know, it’s wind. It’ll stop.
Well, yeah — bad call, that.
I ended up spending the night at the Manchester Airport Hilton. No overnight kit, of course. The hotel hooked me up with a toothbrush and toothpaste and the other basics. Discovery: it turns out that mornings are pretty easy if you have no hair products / styling equipment and no make up to put on and no decisions to make about your wardrobe. I was ready to leave the room 15 minutes after I got out of bed at 5:30 AM. It was like I suddenly endowed with Virtual Manhood.
Anyway, the whole exercise of spontaneous lodging got me thinking about how many different places I’ve crashed in the last year. So on the slow train back to London I made a list. The answer is twenty-three. Most of those are hotels, the others are the homes of friends and family I stayed with while traveling. Three of them are home-like enough that I’ve, say, unpacked more than one suitcase and changed a light bulb (one each in Seattle, D.C., and London).
Is this good? Bad? Natural? Unhealthy? No idea. It just Is, I guess.