Back To Earth With A Bump

I'm sure I remember a time when coming back from holiday was just mildly annoying. You know, like the feeling you get when you know you've got to do all the washing up after a big house party. Your bratty inner-child stomps around saying "I don't wanna!" but you know you've gotta, because you're a grown-up. So you man up and you crack on. The worse you have to face will be eye-crossing levels of boredom as you sift through the 182903 emails and try to remember how everyone in the office has their tea.

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The feeling I get these days is less lethargy, and more pant-soiling fear. Like those dreams where you've done a murder and the police are about to catch you and chop off your head (just me? oh). Or as if you were only allowed to go on holiday on the proviso you shoved a load of explosives into the cupboard under the stairs, and now you're back home you're being made to open the door. It's hard to say where this comes from (hatred of job, fear of rising debt, general lilly-livered-ness?). It's even trickier to know how to be rational about it.

Last year when we came back from holiday we simply went out and bought a kitten. This year we're postponing the agony by going to Beat-Herder the weekend after next. Boy, July is going to sting. Should we buy a dog this time?