I was going to say 'I'm home', but I'm not. Am in family flat in St Albans. Great. I'm homeless again. Noticing how much difference having the flat last year made to me. Or I think I am, though I suspect I'm just tired with the effort I've put in today trying to make this place habitable - furniture moving and unpacking is not fun with the something I've damaged in my left arm, quite apart from being in itself just plain dull. My brother's being his vilest, which hardly helps. Am slightly miserable because I can't get hold of Andy at the moment, too. I have the usual nebulous paranoia that something's wrong in some way, despite the fact that he's probably just left his phone in the car or somewhere or is busy or something, and that I know full well he has no net in his college room. I don't think I'm usually this pathetic about that kind of thing, but actually knowing the fact that we're not living together anymore, after nearly a year, makes just the week I've been away feel all the worse. I hate moving house, and I really don't see the point in making the effort to move on with anything.
Also, I know full well I'm being pathetic. Sorry. Will get over it sometime.
EDIT: Just spoke to him. Feel a bit better, but he isn't in a stunning mood either. Meh.
Don't like this post. It sounds really selfish. Hope you can read it the way I meant it, which, I think, was a little less whiny.