So it happened. As with all things, my American days have come to an end.
I am no longer an Englishman adrift in the sea that is mid-western America. No longer do I have the excuse (and conversational tool) of being foreign. No more can I shrug my shoulders and say that it isn't my country. For now, for better or worse, I'm home.
I always thought it would happen (my returning to England that is), but it is still quite surprising to find myself actually back in London. America was very, umm. comfortable, I can see why people get stuck there. For a while it was home, but it was never Home (if one is allowed to make such capitalistic statements).
Home is London. Home was always London. Which is odd when you consider the fact that I only lived here for 7 years, the first 3 of which it is cheating to count as they were my first 3.
So, anyway I sit here in my, vastly overpriced, rented flat looking out over the London skyline at the dome of St. Paul's (which I'm sure is part of the reason the flat is over priced) and marvel at how things have changed. Three months ago I was living in a house, with 2-3 others, in Columbus paying around 10 percent of my salary in rent. Now I live in a flat in London, with 1-2 other(s), and pay over 50% of my salary in rent. I suppose that's progress for you. It's remarkable how mercenary I have found myself becoming, and how often my thoughts turn to matters fiscal, now that I don't have any money.
