A week can last a long time, in Havran I swear it lasts longer.
Sleepily I write amongst the overnight herd at Stansted Airport awaiting FR2314's early morning departure back to my other civilisation. Switching languages in my head (hahaha, not as if my Slovak ear is anywhere near proficient and my learning worded textbooks remained closed once again on a journey; I need kicking!), preparing my return. Bag packed with another back-dated country living magazine to provide some fantasy for the cottage and another retro board game, not that we get bored.
Can't wait to be back, back into the escapism with no frills. The dogs get confused the first few days when I am away, the cats less so. But me more so as I recognise less and less from the country I used to live in. That's not necessarily a negative thing, just it reflects on how long a week can last.