Life in Europe

When you get a piece of mail from Denmark, for a former housemate ...

And you mark it "Return to Sender" because she's moved and you don't have her forwarding address ...

And you notice the return address is actualfacts friggin Elsinore ...
      (except they spell it Helsingør because they're not Shakespeare)

And then you remember you're going to be in Denmark next week so you translate "Return to Sender" into Danish and make a mental note to drop it in a Danish postbox when you go for groceries.

Ten years ago this scenario would have been unthinkably foreign, and now it's perfectly normal. And yet I'm still haunted by thoughts of leaving it. I am quite clearly out of my mind.




(But when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.)