I have my favourite mug full of my favourite tea (tea that I didn't brew myself, that is), and I am thinking about things to draw and things to write... there's so many stories that went through my head in the last couple of years, but somehow it was always a struggle to write or draw, everything turned out thin and pale like skimmed milk. I spent a long time moving house a lot, and then a long time being unable to sit down because of my bad back. I managed to make a couple of good books, I wrote a novel that I stuck in a drawer for later use, I knitted some things and filled some sketch-books. But I never felt like: aaah, I'm home, now I'll do something brilliant.
But now I actually do... Maybe it's the autumn, too. Autumn always makes me feel like everything hangs together, because it feels the same everywhere I've lived - dry leaves in the wind smell and sound the same in Germany and in England.
It's been a quiet and constant challenge, actually, to move from a not very big town in Germany to Cornwall and then from Cornwall to London and North London to South London and every time there was a whole load of "This isn't how we do things here". I tried learning to like loads of things I didn't understand, like Folk music and white bread and takeaway meals and builder's bum tea and the Archers and washing in a bath tub, and marmite and irony and Eurotrash and Guinness. I really enjoy Marmite and take-aways now and most of the other things I coped with as well (except for the Archers). In fact, I'm sure I learned a million good things on the way.
Anyway, it all seems to hang together today. I feel like the same person I was as a child, and the world feels like the same world I knew then, and I don't know why that should feel so special, but it does.
Maybe it's because it's autumn.
And now I'll try switching my desks around and make the computer desk into the drawing desk and vice versa and when I'm finished we'll see if I still feel like drawing!