In about seven hours, a taxi will pick me up from my parents’ house in the suburbs of South London, and then deposit me at Heathrow, where I’ll be processed through check in and bag drop and security and departure lounge and airplane, and then probably end up in Miami International Airport. I haven’t been there since 1 January, 2000. Partly because I’m superstitious about visiting a place that has the same initials as Missing In Action, but mostly because one hungover morning in the Sunshine State was quite enough to convince me I didn’t need to go back. Lying in the hot sun, incapable, feeling painful sand beneath me, I knew I wasn’t built for that sort of life.
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Going back on my word

I’d hoped I was the sort of person who was impeccable with his word, who carried through with the things he committed to do. Not the sort of person who said he’d do one thing, and then ended up doing the exact opposite. Thus this morning filled me with shame and regret.
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Remote control parents

Technology is a wonderful thing. No one would have believed in the last years of the previous century that their bedrooms were being watched keenly and closely by their relatives in foreign countries. (Cue the introduction from Jeff Wayne’s War Of The Worlds.) Yet now it’s normal, convenient even, for me to Skype my parents and get them to show me what is in the bedroom I abandoned so many years ago, save for fleeting visits whenever I’m in the UK.
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