Morning. Unbroken.

A drooly deep-slept night, and I awoke at 7- to birds and sharp slivers of light through the slats of the blinds.
This morning, I shift around the flat in silence (not even radio national). This morning I get to drink the whole pot of coffee. This morning, I'm making breakfast only for me.
I haven't lived alone since Southwood Lane 2003.

I should have written about the beautiful part of yesterday, which was most of the day, as soon as I got home, but I was still too full to articulate. (This may still be the case).
Then the despair came, with a phone call, and a feeling that the person I love the most in the world is drowning. I'm scared because what if the time comes when I am no longer able to help. My hatred of living in Hungary flared up again, and I wanted to be superwoman and reach out a hand and pull Mum over here, to be safe.
The mood crashed pretty comprehensively after that, and I couldn't even feign excitement at going to Balazs and Orsi's house for dinner.
Dinner turned out to be gulyas (no, really?) that neither of them had cooked before, and that Balint ended up finishing, 2 hours after we arrived. By the time we sat down to eat, I was inexplicably exhausted, and moodless.
Later on the couch, when B poured himself and Balazs palinka after palinka, I actually nodded off a couple of times, which everyone found entertaining, yet B didn't bother to ask if perhaps I wanted to leave. So I got up and told him I'd pick him up when he called me the next day, and back in my own space, happy or not, I followed the trail of breadcrumbs back onto the freeway.

And as the road curved around and the lights of Perth came into view, I felt a jolt of joy, that this view is mine now. I don't have to leave, I have come home.

Of course for the first little while, the apartment, empty, made me feel strange, but after re-checking the front door 82 times I settled in the middle of the bed, with three pillows and read until the book fell back on my face, and I turned the light off and slept.

So. Yesterday. The good bits. Saturday lady provided a kick-ass workout before I drove to Geoff's for a motorbike ride that we'd been planning for ages. I met the rats, and the cat who could rival Pista for softness. As with most cats and me, she sauntered away haughtily. Is my 'i want to squeeze you till your head pops off' aura so obvious?
And then we were on our way. The helmet I wore squeezed my face into a hamsteresque pout so when I smiled - which was the whole way - it felt like a futile effort, though photos will prove otherwise.
It was amazing. Orsi asked last night if I was scared and I realised, as with heights, if my safety is in someone else's hands, then hell no.
I'm afraid if I try to put how it felt into words it will just be a torrent of cliches so perhaps I'll leave that part, but on the way back when we passed a Holden driven by a P plater I felt a childish and happy "Ha!"
Our destination was Walyunga national park, where once parked, we walked along the Avon in the zizz of flies and the whisper of the water over the rocks.
There were wild goats, and a lazy lizard and ducks and possibly a little speedy finch. I don't know how long we sat by the water, just watching, not saying much. Because how could you not sit there, mesmerised. Just happy.
Lunch was decadent, and had an eclectic soundtrack which included Frank Sinatra, the Scorpions and Whitney Houston. At a small cafe on the west swan road, under olive trees and jacarandas decked with fairy lights, we ate hot olives bathed in garlic and citrus and olive oil, and fresh pasta and fish with caper-berry mash... and at the end, my espresso was served in a shot glass.

. . .