I am preoccupied with the idea of home. Getting home. Going home. Home.
At present, we are somewhat stuck approximately 900k from home (being Warburton, add another 200k if you imagine Blackstone). The tyranny of distance rears its ugly head in response to a simple weather event (rain).
A large hole in one part of the road from Laverton to Tjukayirla has had that section of the road closed for weeks. The only other option to get in to the Lands from the west has been the mail plane. Currently booked out 3 weeks in advance. Waitlisting chances are probably good, provided we're prepared to pack up at 6.15am two mornings a week and take our chances. Separately (three seats on one plane being impossible).
For all that, it is more than the mere act of getting home that is preoccupying me. Sure, I miss it. I want to be out of hotel rooms. I've had enough of my morning coffees, and eaten out in restaurants all that my body can take (too much). I'm tired of the convenience, the parking hassles, the frenetic pace of city life.
I'm preoccupied by the idea of home. The allure of an oasis in the desert is paling. It's certainly a complete package that I enjoy. It's challenging, interesting, exciting, relaxed, remote. But fundamentally not home.
The closer we get to the point where Eleanor needs to go to preschool, or primary school (if I delay just a little), the more the question draws closer. Where is home?
Are we nearly there yet?
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