So It Goes: jetlag

Okay, the flight was only three hours and I even got home an hour quicker by the clock, but I am still waking up wondering where I am.

It’s like that feeling of not knowing where you left your shoes, where you parked your car (okay that happens a lot) or what exit to take off the roundabout.  Just for a moment, your head does a little dance before it settles on the fact that you are not in a hotel in little country town. You are home.

Have I got used to freshly laundered towels and little soaps?  Certainly, I have got used to not being woken up by a feline fluff ball at 5am just before the alarm clock tells you it’s time to make tracks.  Actually there are lots of clues including the fact that it’s not five degrees outside, the surf is a place you can swim and the grass is a definite blend of grey with the green.

I know I didn’t fly a long distance  (luckily so, given the fact that our food service comprised a one-bite sized muesli bar – we always travel top class) and that the travel didn’t involve a passport, but I still feel somewhat jet lagged.

It was a giddy few weeks.  Perhaps the jet lag is about returning to a state of constancy and not wondering whether today was a day for a boat trip, a clickety clack railway ride through the wilderness, a convict discovery (I even found someone with the same name as my grandmother) or a drive down a scenic road.

Whatever the adventure, you could say Tasmania is a little slice of apple pie.  We did buy a number of bags of apples from local farms, sampled more than a few pies from local bakeries and the crunch and the flaky pastry renewed my faith in the five food groups.

But one of the best things about the holiday was the company of friends.  We tossed around a few names for this little adventuring group of 10 and decided to call this the Tossers Tour.  I wanted to call it the “What the Hell?” group because in making most decisions, we simply threw caution away.

And now I am tossed back home.  What the hell? I may as well enjoy it.