If ever two people were more glad to get home, I'm really glad not to have had to deal with whatever those two people were dealing with. Sufficient unto the Chaz is the life thereof.
So the last few days have been a struggle, not helped by the fact that we both have physical issues much exacerbated by long days in aeroplanes and nights of not sleeping. Me, I am back on the codeine again (and was briefly surprised to realise that I hadn't eaten all day and am still not hungry...). K still takes more pills than I do, but I'm narrowing the gap. At least until I can get this shoulder fixed. I'm vaguely hopeful that there may be massage on offer at BayCon this weekend; they fixed it for me at FogCon, and one miracle begets (dreams of) another.
In related news, I did very nearly post a brag last night, to the effect of "All you people who worry how much I drink? Stop worrying: these are stressful times, and I am apparently dry in Alabama." Only then a six-pack intervened, so not so much, actually. But still. The funeral baked meats went down with water, and I made no fuss at all. (Yes, yes, I know, Not About Me. That's rather my point. But this blog is, so.)
In honesty, I didn't really think about it much. Other things on my mind. Karen was remarkable all trip, but you'd expect that.
Now we're home, and I have gathered in the last of the fava beans. We had to wash our mid-afternoon pills down with wine, because the water was off; then I thought I'd sit in the garden and read, only I kept falling asleep. Well, hell, we were up at four this morning, and I didn't sleep at all the night before. Tonight, in my own bed, with my own cats about me - I can't wait. Possibly neither can they. Except that a roasted chicken has to intervene. With fava beans and brussels, and roast potatoes, and gravy. And there's been a request for ice cream, so I'm back to Lucky's in a bit.