Going

Next week at this time of the day I shall be back home. I've spent most of the day trying to work out whether I am happy about it or treat it as a big misfortune... I'm still not quite sure.
The first four weeks of my stay here were really good- the best I can remember since this weird tradition of spending a summer month in England began. I work but little and have plenty of time for contemplation, walks, book-reading and friend-chatting. I feel quite relaxed, really. The children love me. I feel needed here. So why should I be glad about going back home?
Home, where boring farm-life awaits, where the entire oncoming month is bound to be stress-filled... I should know better than that! But I don't.
I spent this weekend in France- visited magnificent places and met marvellous people, spent hours with my favourite French and felt special, really special. Now that I'm back here, I no longer feel so. I've been here too long, I became a part of the place again, and I think the time has come to move on again. I need a bit of a change. I need some sense of security but not too much. I need to see my friends again. I need to talk, to laugh, to cry with them.
I need to begin a new chapter in my life again- the time has come, I can feel it. I can't forever drink latte and read books- I need to move! And no matter what happens to me over the next couple of weeks, I am perfectly certain it will be something new. My life is about to change again and I can't wait for that.