Verbal schmerbal

So, here I am, sitting in an unlikely place (the productivity room of a gen Y digital company) in the land of a declining superpower. My body is not reacting favourably to being flung from the glory of that Sydney winter's weekend a few days ago, to the slap in the face of a Californian summer. Summer in Santa Monica is actually looking very pleasant. It's just not where my body thinks it should be, only 2 weeks after a winter festival. 

I miss my boys. I miss my island. I miss my dog. I miss my boys. Away from them is not where their mama should be. They are oblivious (I hope) to the turmoil going on in the heads of their mother and father. Yes, yes, I know kids pick up on these things... but I'm not with them, am I! I should be cautious of allowing too much turmoil though, just in case the Madonna's cloak reaches them from this far away.

There are many many cars here. I am in a state of despair as to the future of our environment when there are so many thousands of cars around me. And rubbish.... the rubbish! It's not blowing down the street like I've seen it in Africa.You can't see it necessarily but everything is prepackaged. Where does all that packaging go? The thought of it makes me feel ill.

Yesterday I found the "Self-Realisation Meditation Lake and Shrine". It was peaceful and quiet, until a limo pulled up at the gate and two rather in-appropriately dressed young skinny things climbed out. They distracted me and filled my nostrils with cigarette smoke. I truly don't know how the Zimbo does it. He's here for 3 weeks, on a work project. I know he aches for his children but he still manages to dive in to work and crack on. I've only been here away from them for 3 days but I feel like crying at every discomfort or unpleasant distraction. With each oddity in my day I think "I shouldn't be here. I should be at home, mothering my children".

I see no child-friendly neighbourhoods. I've seen no children playing in the street, or a dog off a lead looking happy. Certainly haven't heard any cluck clucks of chooks. Perhaps I've just got it too good at home. I already knew that. There's water, but it's not shimmering and glistening and whispering my name. This adventure is looking less enticing.