I’m here (finally).

Manchester.

I’m here. I’m safe and sound.

I know how much I’ve wished that I had kept a better record of my previous experiences abroad, but I can’t bring myself to write down a detailed account of what I’ve done with myself since I arrived, tearful and semi-delirious, on Thursday.

It was a long, long journey. I mean, I don’t have to say this in a figurative sense because it’s actually true. I travelled, then travelled some more, then travelled some more, and by the time I set down in Manchester airport, I was too tired to be excited. Going over to England this time didn’t feel the same. I wasn’t jittery with excitement on the plane. I was dreading two layovers and uncomfortable during the majority of my three flights. I found it impossible to sleep not because I was so amped, but because I couldn’t physically find a way to sleep despite my eyelids weighing a hundred pounds. Not surprising, then, that even on the coach to the university, I was more interested in getting to my room as quickly as possible than observing my surroundings and marvelling at the fact that I was finally back in England, where I’ve dreamt of being for so long.

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