She’s Baaack

and trying to catch up. Biggest disaster yet: the photo disk from my week in England is corrupt (Paris pix are fine) — none of the photos from Bath and later London are salvagable (I think). My bags went through the X-ray machines at Customs, which might have done it, and I took a look at the pix yesterday and there was something funny going on, I should have saved them then but tried to look at other pix. When I put the disk back in the card reader, it keeps saying I/O error and the camera just wants to format the disck. Can you hear me scream? This is me, screaming: my photos of all of Jane Austen’s houses, the (costly) tea we had at Bath, the photos of Mia in front of her quaint little house, and the photos of 84 Charing Cross. Luckily, I can send Mia back to retake some pix, and she has a disk of photos, but argh, grrr, @$%@&*#%^@*$^.

And that’s all I want to say about it. I had my crying moment about it yesterday, with jet lag, exhaustion, lost car keys, cell phone on silent lost somewhere in the house, my ATM card frozen and the camera disk not working.

So boo hoo.

But onward. The trip home was uneventful, just extremely long (10 1/2 hrs in the air) and seemed like I’d never get here, but my man was there with a big bouquet of flowers and a bigger kiss (or three), and he had filled the fridge and cleaned my house and got his hair cut and I just want to eat him up. Mia’s suitcase nearly killed me, since I had to hoist it through the baggage claim and customs on my own, plus my own two and carry on, like the ant carrying a gigantic bread crumb. Thank god for Herb Caen and his campaign to get free baggage carts for international travelers at SFO. Otherwise I would still be there now. I made it through customs with no real trouble, just the hoisting of massive bags (case in point: I weight about 105 on a fat day and Mia’s bag was almost 80 pounds. Plus my own two and carry-on, about 30-40 pounds each. Ack. Luckily my arms are still attached at the shoulders. I think they’re longer, though.)

Anwyay, the house is still standing, my plan did not become a fiery ball o death and here I am to tell tales. More to come…watch this space.

Advice to Aspiring Writers: Homecomings make travel worthwhile. Or, Dorothy was right.

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