A lost weekend can be a wonderful thing. They don’t happen very often, and they cannot be planned. There is no real recipe, just a series of contradictory experiences, to which all you need to add is willing.
I think it started on Friday. I made the glorious decision to take a day off for no particular reason. I spent a day in happy domesticity, before treading an unfamiliar path to hidden rooms, down dark corridors behind unmarked doors – a land of excess, dangerous tea and fancy dress boxes. I saw the sun come up and lost track of time and space. I made a new friend and said goodbye to an old and dear one. I met untrustworthy girls who smiled daggers. I committed a crime. I returned to the comfort of Warwick, and the East, and the people who know me best.
And now it is Sunday evening, the haze is lifting and the reality of Monday is fast approaching. I find that I am happily found.
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