Tag Archives: Boston

Welcome home to me

17 Oct

I got back from Boston about an hour ago. Quick unpack. Quick repack, because I’m going to Edinburgh tomorrow night.

I’m looking forward to a weekend of relaxing with the kind of friends you can totally relax with, seeing my sister and my nephews, and a kindofsortofsemi date with Wedding Boy.

I’m also looking forward to not being in my flat.

I love my flat. When I bought it three years ago I was just beside myself with delight at having my own place. I remember when I first came to view it, and immediately texted my friends and said, “I just viewed the flat I’m going to marry!”.

I just don’t like being at home anymore.

Being in Boston, and living in a (very nice) hotel room, distanced me from the life I shared with him.

Also, I’ve always wanted to live in the US. I’ve worked there a couple of times (two months in Pennsylvania, three months in New York) and studied at the University of Texas for a year. My family went on holiday to Florida and Colorado every year when I was a kid, and my parents still spend three months of the year in Florida. It’s fair to say we all have a bit of a love affair with America.

I guess I’m thinking that maybe the pizza of doom happened so that I’m free to go where I want and do what I want.

I don’t know. I’m jet lagged and tired and my thoughts are very jumbled.

Everything in my flat reminds me of him, and nobody welcomed me home.

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Somewhere over the Atlantic

15 Oct

I’m writing this from somewhere over the Atlantic. Which is kind of fitting, really, since that’s where my relationship fell apart. While he was in New York deciding that he had never been in love with me, I was in London falling even more deeply in love with him. And so, somewhere over the Atlantic, it broke.

I hardly slept last night (despite having some great new bed sheets with dogs on them). There’s something about visiting the US that makes me miss him even more.

It’s silly, because at home in London we live about a mile and a half apart. Yes, I think about him constantly. But why should it hit me even harder when I’m travelling 4,000 odd miles to a different country?

I’m thinking about last January when he had to go to New York for three days on business. I remember how happy we both were when he got home. How much he said he had missed me.

I’m thinking of the morning he left for the US back in May. How we said goodbye and then I climbed back into his bed for an hour and smelled his smell on his pillow. How secure I felt.

I’m thinking about his flight home, the day of the pizza of doom. Did he already know when he got on the plane that he was going to break up with me? Did he decide when he landed in London? Or was it something that happened somewhere over the Atlantic?

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