So I thought I should probably pop in and say that no, I'm not dead, I've just been in London. I think I forgot to tell you I was going to London, and then I went, and then I barely had any Internet—well, okay, I had some Internet, but I also had a lot of different ciders to sample and biscuits to eat and old friends to stay out with until one o'clock in the morning, so sue me—and now I'm back and I've been felled by jetlag, but I just wanted to say hi anyway, because manners cost nothing, which is a hell of a lot less than a one-way ticket from Zone 1 to Zone 4 on the Tube, but that's another story for another day.
I have a lot to tell you about London, most of it misty ruminations on how quickly time flies—I purposefully slapped myself in the face with nostalgia on this trip, visiting both my old school and my old university, and meeting up for various social engagements with people I hadn't seen in 14 years—but it will have to wait until I can formulate a coherent sentence and/or find my camera cord amid the shameful jumble of Cadburys chocolate I stuffed into every nook and cranny of my suitcase under the clearly B.S delusion that it would "totally last me the year."
Oh, Holly, you're only fooling yourself. Three months, tops.
On my flight back to San Francisco yesterday, I sat next to a bodyguard, which is pretty much the best kind of person you can sit next to on a plane. First, because you can totally pretend that he's your bodyguard—in your head if you're normal, out loud to the other passengers if the in-flight movies are really boring—and secondly, because you feel pretty safe on a plane if you're sitting next to a bodyguard. In fact, the only way you could feel even safer on a plane while sitting next to a bodyguard is if the bodyguard reveals—during your inquisitive probing about what it's like to be a bodyguard—that he was also once in the army, that he specialized in counter-terrorism training, that he's attended something called "sniper school," and that he is also, no big deal, A PILOT.
I mean, do they have a guy lined up for the next Bachelor? I got this guy's card, just in case.
Also, bodyguards have really good gossip. I found this out when mine leaned over the armrest while I pawed through my fifth trashy magazine of the journey, thrust a finger towards Kim Kardashian, and said "eh, she's a bitch."
"Really?" I said, eyes wide with curiosity (although, entre nous, I'd rather suspected it all along.) "TELL ME MORE."