That’s how long it took me to get back. 21 hours of planes, trains and automobiles. Of course that doesn’t include the two days of waiting for the fog from hell to lift. While the trip cannot be described as anything other than a smashing success, it’s not something I want to do again anytime soon—the exception being when Ellen Degeneres calls me to dance with her on TV and tell me how much she loves my hairstyle and mannish wardrobe, naturally.

I’m no good for it. By the time I got to the housette my head was spinning, literally. St. John’s to Halifax, Halifax to Montreal, Montreal to Paris then the train with 10 stops all lead to the worst case of vertigo I’ve ever had. Nobody wants to be around a dizzy, towering pillar of a woman waiting to yell “TIMBER!”

Anyway, I’m too knackered to write much today. I’m trying not to think about the fact that the only food in the house is a can of corn and that a colony of ants have taken over the living room. I did however muster up enough energy to haul on my beloved turquoise blue sweatpants that I keep insisting are poised to become all the rage here in France. My husband seems skeptical to say the least. Like his wardrobe today is anything that will grace Paris Fashion Week.

So here I am, glamourous author, installed back in the cage — ratty sweats, a raging case of bedhead and a pillow mark bisecting the left side of my face from forehead to jawline. All things are once again right in the world.

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