A week ago, I struggled to think of change as a good thing, a new chapter of my adventure. My pillow became salty and streaked with make-up and I turned to a friend for help. And she gave me it. She rushed in from the wings (London) to hold me and remind me I'm here and I'm alive and I'm going to make this city my own story.
|The Bear Pit|
It can be easy to curl up in the groove you've worn for yourself and mourn the places and people you've left behind, and the people you can't hold onto after all. This past week I've unpeeled myself from that rut and hurled myself into Bristol face-first. I've not been too shy or proud to tell people: "I'm new here, I need help." I've been lucky and people have been friendly. I ambled into a party held by some colleagues I'd never actually met, hair wired up into "Pippi Longstocking" pigtails (fancy dress, beginning with 'p'), merrily befriended all the night-shifters, lost my shoes and laughed and danced and found the person with amaretto (a talent of mine, I feel). I broke the ice and, in the last week, I've been to the cinema and to restaurants and to explore the Park Street charity shops. I'm feeling more at home. I'm feeling like I will have friends. I'm feeling like anything could happen.
I'm feeling on the cusp of rebirth.