Cymru

It's nearly late on a Sunday night. I have to rise early to begin my final week of temping so I should go to bed. Instead, though, I sit at the computer thinking about the weekend just gone, and smile.

On Friday night I ironed things, watched Muriel's Wedding and sang along to the Abba-studded soundtrack. I cooked, I cleaned, I folded: performing uncharacteristically housewifely duties with only myself to impress.

On Saturday I made my way to Paddington station and boarded the eleven forty-five to Cardiff. A few hours later and I was sitting in a bar in the bay area, contendedly sipping a pint, in the company of this man. It was a warm and sunny day, and I felt warm and sunny myself.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of pubs, parties and people. Laughter, words spilling and tumbling out, statues in the park and leaning on railings watching swans slide by and herons carefully place their spindly feet. Cardiff was full of sunshine. I ate two Magnums without a care in the world.

Time flowed by like cool silk and soon I was sitting on the train coming home again. I chatted to the girl sitting opposite me for a while after she had offered me one of her biscuits, but spent most of the journey gazing out of the window, happy to float in hazy daydreams.

I am home again, and it is nearly late. The frustrations of last week seem to have ebbed away and I feel hopeful, and ready to take on the world. Infused with some indescribable knowledge that everything will be alright in the end.

UPDATE: Does anyone know of any good hostels in Lisbon?