It seems that I did make some progress since the rehab. In my thirties, dealing with a single “bureaucratic” affair, or even buying something one doesn’t buy every week, usually exhausted me – mentally – too much to get involved in another such business that same day.
Now it only took Tuesday and Wednesday to cancel my Internet connection, close my account in one bank, change appropriate details in the other, get the information I needed from the jobcentre, health insurance company, social insurance agency and from the Revenue, even to have my hair cut and more – all this in a calm, leisurely way.
I also bought some of the tasty things you won’t see in a Scottish shop, like Margot, a “banana in chocolate” (although I’m finding out you can order these two at Amazon) and křupky (an onomatopoeic name, but don’t even try to find out how to pronounce it).
Despite which I found out my feelings were similar to those during the last few visits at the rehab. (Or, for that matter, in Brae, a few years after having left the college.) I was revisiting a place I had once known quite well and called, or almost called, a “home”; but I no longer belonged there. I was just a visitor. A welcome visitor perhaps, but no more than that.
Even “my” flat, in which I had been staying for a dozen years, felt more like a hotel room than the Glasgow one I had moved in last December.
(First published on Blogger in April ’12.)