|Disney (Photo credit: Wikipedia)|
It's hard to talk about being back to reality when you live in Disneyland, but leave is hardly time in the real world. You've got money and time on your hands, everyone's pleased to see you (they haven't seen you for months, so they're naturally excited. If they saw your ugly mug every other weekend it'd be a different story, wouldn't it?) and you can pretty much suit yourself. The long-distant memory of the grey daily grind of life in the UK is forgotten as you have your 'Cider with Rosie' time off. That feeling of homesickness you get landing back in the Emirates is actually a hankering for a distorted vision of home that's even more unreal than Lalaland, The Home Of The Shiny.
We actually went to the real Disneyland, part of a glorious week in Paris and a chance for little niece Ellen to meet Mickey Mouse, which was a moment of pure magic for a wee girl. I didn't tell her his head comes off, she's too young and there's plenty of time for that yet. I can only marvel at the genius of an organisation that can make you queue for forty five minutes to meet a dancer in a mouse suit then gouge you twenty Euro for a photo of the meeting on the way out. Genius of a truly evil order.
We also spent a brilliant (if heart-rendingly expensive) week in Sweden, which is too long a story to tell. If you ever find yourself in Stockholm, stay at The Grand and eat at Fem Sma Hus in Gamla Stan. Don't ask questions, just do it.
They've opened a Carrefour around the corner. It's hot. I've got the manuscript of Beirut - An Explosive Thriller back from Robb The Editor and there's a load of work to be done before it's ready for publication.
I've got a paw on the hamster wheel and a gentle shove confirms that familiar old squeak is still there. Time to hop on again...