Dom dom est os...

I have the brand names and jingles of cleaning products screeching through my mind in operatic frenzy. My hands are scarred and raggedy from encounters with steelo and scourers and sharp oven edges. My brain is comatose in a milky mist of domestos and white king. I am going home!

The last couple of months have been a complete mess, with pockets of perfect, clear light interspersed to help me keep my sanity. I think I have. Although I have been caught in the bathrooms at work, making "hair product" noises that Timea would be proud of.

So, pockets of light - people's goodness and generosity: from lending cleaning items, to rolling cigarettes, to parking the car when I wasn't capable... these small acts of beauty keep me believing that this year will kick arse. Not ass, arse.

And now that I am finally moving home - although this week it still feels a little alien... a landscape littered with beer bottle tops, cigarette buts and foreign hair ... I am making it mine again. The doona is on the balcony, soaking up sunshine and fresh air, drying sheets of linen adorn the house, mingling fabric softner aromas with the nag champa I am constantly burning to counter the stench of bleach and ammonia.

But the frangipanis made it, and this morning when I had my first cup of Paul back home on the balcony, it felt right.
I will try and recap major events, now that I'm more or less back on line, and back in action.

. . .