Today has not been a good day. In fact on an emotional level I would say it's been catastrophically, unquestionably dreadful.
Having powered through to the edge fueled only by fear and biscuits, I brought my three-day big push to bring Don Draper home to a close at 11.55pm on Thursday night. I then took my sorry and under-nourished ass out for a subdued last hurrah with Yorkshire's Finest; it being necessary, after all, to consume an inappropriate amount of bacterially-resplendent fromage (not Bleu Cheese, Isadora, no) before leaving for good. This, of course, had to be accompanied by a delectable Bourgogne and followed by a cleansing ale, because it was after all, St Patrick's Day. Anyway, this minor foray into sociability came back to bite me firmly in the ass when I realised that having devoted all my time to my writing, my packing had somewhat suffered (let's be honest, so much remained undone).
When the sweep of an arm into the box technique can no longer be employed because key immigration documents may or may not be somewhere in 'that pile of crap' there is only one thing for it. Go, and then come back. It's like one of those fucked up rows you have with your beloved (who at the time is being affectionately referred to as cunt) and after you slam the door to make your sweeping exit you realise that you have left your handbag on the table in the kitchen, and that you have no choice but to go back and get it. Trust me, I know.
So here I am, saying goodbye to my Paris apartment for a second time, having already left it yesterday, to go to a meeting in London as scheduled, because once was just not hard enough. And at some point, just to really rub salt into an already gaping would, my iPod spat out Tom Waits. If there was one song I did not need to hear it was this:
When one door closes?
Only time will tell...