home-again, home-again / creeping revisionism
December 5, 2011“Jiggity-jig” was something I used say when we arrived back from trips, riding transports hither-tither, shepherding children.
There was a huge satisfaction in finishing a trip. Things go well, you and your charges exchange well-wishes and glib assurances; there were no fatalities and you are no longer bound by a responsibility for others. Exiting the taxi, coming through our gates I would sling off my pack in a catapult arc, dumping it inside the door; don’t need it now. Kick shoes off: too restrictive. The rank shirt follows the bag and shoes once I’ve smelled it for assurance that I did work; like a promise of earning. Now I roll outside on the cold tiles, shouting and swearing. It’s all a ritual, bathing in relief. If I’m lucky, I get a beer for my troubles although more likely than not I must go buy my own.
The relief, the moment of homecoming is very brief as there are only so many things I can cast off; this newly liberated me still has to drink, wash, I am still constrained. But the sense of freedom is sweet for some damp sweaty minutes before you start bidding for the shower.
