Peace on earth

It feels like I am a million miles away from the stupefying, mind-numbingly trivial existence of some aspects of life back home. Not that I am doing anything deeply profound or intellectually demanding. On the contrary, much of the day involves doing nothing at all, apart from reading books and grilling gently under the Croatian sun. I recommend it.

I could live this kind of existence forever, if the truth be known. Not here in Croatia, or anywhere outside dear old fractured and arguing Blighty. The weather and fresh air are doing wonders for my arthritis and asthma, to be sure, but I know where home is and, more than that, I know where most of my family and friends are. And, of course, King Street, Casa Mexicana and HMV.

I am often accused to thinking too much. Just chill out, some say. They have a point, up to a point. I am still dreading the prospect of both Brexit and a weapons-grade idiot like Boris Johnson becoming prime minister and I do fear about our broken country back home, even though I can do nothing about it. I can do less than nothing about it here in Supetar. Why fret about it?

It isn’t just my arthritis and asthma that were left at the boarding gate at Manxhester Airport. I’m not depressed or anxious, either. Well, not very. Much, if not all of this, is because of the accident of our discovery of Brac. We thought it might be peaceful and relaxing and it turned out to be that and more. It is, as I pointed out before in another blog, a considerable step-up from my beloved Greece in pretty well every conceivable way. Life goes on slightly quicker than in glacial speed Greece, where everything is “no problem” and sometimes nothing gets done at all.

Here, in this gorgeous little island, I have found peace. Peace, happiness, good sleep, excellent wifi and cheap beer.

I have these books to write, you see. Two by the summer of 2020. I’d rather like to write them here, if I could. The ideas I have when I close my eyes; they’re incredible, off the scale. A week Thursday, I’ll alight the plane at Manchester airport, looking absurd in three quarters and T shirt, trying to walk between raindrops to the car.

Real life starts again, then. I hope I can bring some of the peace back with me, even if Boris Fucking Johnson is prime minister by then.

At least I have found a prescription for my depression that actually works. It’s called Brac.