I’m in Sri Lanka.
About two weeks ago I contacted a friend who lives out here and invited myself to stay. She very graciously said yes, I found flights that were so well-priced it would almost be an affront not to have bought them, and yesterday I flew.
‘Are you having a mid-life crisis?’ my youngest sister asked me, before bemoaning the fact that she will shortly be the ‘wrong side of 25’.
‘If I am,’ I told her, ‘Then I’m really happy about it.’
For the past fortnight the only thing I’ve known as a certainty is that I’d be on a flight to Colombo. Now I’m here, the only thing that’s certain is my return date. What happens inbetween, and beyond that, I have no idea.
And whether this is a recklessly foolish attitude to have or not, I’m not too worried about it. After all – only after being in Colombo a few hours, I can tell you it beats London on temperature. It’s a warm 30C whereas the London I left was still shivering even though it’s mid-May. It’s hard to fret when there’s sunshine.