There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening
I'm back in New York!
It was so very thoroughly splendid to see those of you back in Albion that I did see, and a sorry thing that I did not see those of you that I did not. The familial duty ended up being a trifle more consuming than I had anticipated. It is - alack! - the problem with not going home for nigh on two years. They colonise your time, the fiends.
Special mention must go to my brother who sabotaged my final push on NaNoWriMo with an interesting problem he's been working on to do with fuzzy clustering. It's nice to dust off the maths brain from time to time. Note, this isn't at all the same thing as furry clustering, which, frankly, hardly bears thinking about.
I had a fantastically smooth journey back yesterday, despite stiff headwinds. I watched Mummy III on the flight and it was as awful as anticipated. Mummy Returns was B-movie balderdash but made it work somehow. Mummy III essentially tried to reproduce that in as cynical and formulaic a way as humanity is capable of. As a result, it was closer to taxidermy than cinematography... although given the subject matter that is perhaps not inappropriate.
I breezed through immigration control. There were not squadrons of putti to scatter rose petals before me as emerged from the baggage reclaim. Clearly there was some sort of mix up and people were not informed as to the hour of my advent. The taxi driver was one of those who just refuse to know their way around Brooklyn. I guided him as far as BAM and then opted to walk the rest of the way. Steering him through the backstreets of Fort Greene just felt far too difficult, particularly as it was about 2am for me by then. I had dressed for a New York December and the temperature was absurdly balmy. I arrived back at the Chapel Perilous in a state of some overheating.
Today I have spent in a very leisurely fashion, drinking duty free champagne and catching up with correspondence. I've also been rehashing a piece of juvenilia that I came across in my papers back home and had thought lost. The problem with unlosing these things is that they are rarely the masterworks that you remember, so I am in the process of rendering it as something closer to my memory. At the moment it reads like Rupert Bear written by an adolescent Philip Pullman.
Back to work tomorrow. I'm actually sort of looking forward to it.