And so there I was again- back to square one after a long learning interval and I wasn't quite sure where to start. I only knew that I had to keep moving, little steps because if I stood till, I feared I would be overwhelmed. No job, no place to live and no life that I recognised as my own anymore.
After a brief stint at my mother's, I packed my bags once more and headed to where I knew best.
It was late September and on the train journey I idly cast my eyes over the green Kentish countryside and its familiarity was a comfort in which I delighted. This time, however, I wouldn't be in the very thick of the city but rather, an idyllic nook, removed far from any town- in a fortnight I had gone from the very humming heart of Barcelona, with every conceivable convenience to hand, to a place where over an hour's round trip on foot for a bottle of milk was to be standard- no more dreamy takeaway morning coffees or late night coriander buying, that was for sure.
As I lay my bag on the bed that was to be one of mine for the coming months, a rusty chirrup came from beneath my feet and a leap and a bound later there was my dearest and weirdest cat pal, Buddy. With notes of desperate excitement that I had come back to him he pressed his cheek up against mine and rubbed black snot across my brow. "Why is your snot always black, Buddy?" I said and he answered with a feverish croak. Seeing no other choice but to scoop him up and prop him over my shoulder where he could bury his face in my neck, I left him to his curious ways and together we padded downstairs into the garden where Bruce the sleek but troubled greyhound and my Vicki were waiting in the early autumn evening. "What should we do now?" I sighed, placing Buddy gently on the grass. Grabbing Bruce's lead she simply replied with what would be my answer to everything for weeks to come.
"We walk."
