“No more coffee,” I tell myself. I put down the plastic cup of watery airline coffee and look around. The elderly man next to me snores softly with a newspaper in his hands. I want to sleep as well but my nausea is keeping me awake. I try not to think about the journey ahead of me. Twenty-four more long hours of flying, waiting and riding. Hopefully, I’ll be able to catch a few winks on the longer flight to Heathrow.
I am also looking forward to going to Wales. Let’s leave alone the fact that I’m going to be putting up at one of my grandmothers’ homes, while I look for a new apartment in London. In retrospect, it was utterly foolish of me to give up my old apartment. Also, I have a lesson for you: Do not trust 22 year old students who promise to let out their apartments to you as a transition space. Apparently, the above-mentioned women can be fickle-minded and might just prefer their best-friends over you, leaving you momentarily homeless.
If I survive the next 24 hours I will write to you again.
Hopefully, with a recipe.