The email has finally stopped at 178 new messages. And that's just in the inbox. We won't even start adding up all the subboxes that have things going straight into them. Gah. (So, yes, I'm back, I'm bad, I'm running on three hours sleep somewhere early in the week and the sheer willpower only a McChicken Meal can provide.)

The week in review:

The trip down. The guy sitting next to me on the train travelled in a cloud of stale nicotine and tobacco. He spent his time messaging someone on his mobile phone and assaulting my sense of smell. It wasn't too bad, though, because he seemed to have an inability to sit still for more than half an hour at a time, and kept getting up and disappearing for long stretches. Probably to renew his personal atmosphere. Or maybe he was shooting up in the toilets. I noticed, when I was forced to use the facilities, that there was a needle disposal unit. I personally think that anyone trying to find a vein on a rocking, jolting train deserves everything they get.

The relatives. If you can possibly avoid it, or are not Italian yourself, do not get involved with an Italian. I have been kissed by more people in the past week than in most of my life to date. I've been babbled at in Italian so much that it's possibly a miracle I haven't returned with any of the language myself. Nonna spoke pretty much only Italian, but she thought I was wonderful. At least, the way the threw the Male aside to embrace me suggests it. Or maybe her slight dementia had taken a hand, and she'd concentrated so much on remembering me that she'd forgotten he was important too. (Or maybe it's just that I'm prettier than he is. Smell better too, I imagine.) They were all wonderful to me, though, and cooked the most beautiful food, apparently without really thinking about it. I felt quite unworthy, and very much in awe.

The city. Is beautiful. Oh my yes. I love the feel of it, beautiful old gothic buildings, complete with gargoyles, nestled amongst glass skyscrapers. Trees, parks, trams, little alleyways turned into chic markets. I love it, because I laugh at it, and sometimes with it, and revel in the atmosphere and laugh at myself. I certainly don't take it seriously. But I think I could quite easily live there for a year or two. Just long enough to fully appreciate it. Not long enough to be totally overpowered by it. Oh, and I could handle staying at the Crown for a week or two as well. The word 'sumptuous' barely covers it.

The trip back. Also know as the Hellfire and Damnation Express. Two hours late to begin with, leaving me huddled on an arctic platform, thumbing through Empire with numbing fingers. Behind me, four teenage girls of the itchy-trigger-finger variety. They didn't shut up for the entire journey, I'm absolutely certain. Between them, they had two mobile phones, two game boys and a walkman. I have nothing but pity for people who can't entertain themselves for at least half an hour purely alone - just them and their brain. They talked about boys, make-up, music. Rinse and repeat. Ad Nauseum. When I had to change to a bus, there was a baby right behind me. It screamed on and off in a strangely rhythmical fashion most of the way home.

And I staggered home to my email. Somewhere in here are messages I actually want to read. But for now.... sleep. (It's good to be back. Holidays are good, but I like the comfort of home.)