Looks like I can’t avoid it any longer: I’m going home. We need to work on a new release of the RF software and the dev team in Brighton like to have me around in person as we squish the last remaining bugs.
Tony, the team leader, has already told my mum that I’m coming. She called me last night to say she’d tidied my old room and that everything was ‘just as I liked it,’ as if I wanted to stay there, as if this was all to my liking. As if.
And I had to announce my impending absence to my colleagues in the lab this morning, who were all delighted about the extra workload they’ll need to pick up. Even Pearce from Homicide made a point of grumbling about it. Apparently I’m the only technician deemed worthy of handling his evidence properly.
So all in all, it seems like my mother is the only person looking forward to this trip. She even started dropping hints about seeing my dad, which I deliberately ignored.
The time difference between the UK and Baltimore is supposed to be five hours, but every time I fly back home, it feels like I’m regressing ten years. Here, I’m a grown-up with a job and responsibilities. There, I’m a kid staying in my bedroom with posters from Final Fantasy and Angel from Buffy on the wall. (Don’t judge me.) Some people seem to enjoy being treated like a child. I suppose it depends on what your childhood was like.
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