What is the end of a manic week for most, is really just the beginning for me. After spending half of the week either standing or hanging above the roof tops of London, as you read this I will be sat in the back of a car on my way to the airport. It all sounds so glamorous blogging these days. We jet here, there and everywhere, experiencing the very best of what our destination has to offer.
But as I mentioned recently, the reality for me is very different. Somewhere in my years growing up I became afraid, afraid or what lay beyond my normality. My little bubble that I called life is warm and cosy and I feel safe there. But more and more often I am away from that safety, I’m walking the streets of London on my own, I’m boarding a flight to somewhere hot or I’m in a boat in the middle of the bloody sea. For me this is frightening. I love where I go, I love the sights, smells and experiences of every destination, You all know how I long to be close to the sea as often as possible. But with every breaking news story, I become more afraid.
For someone who prides them selves on their strength, independence and abilities, to find yourself shaking uncontrollably due to a little turbulence or crying hysterically in the cable car down the side of Santorini is a hard pill to swallow. Even getting in the lift to climb the 20 floors it took to reach this stunning location over looking the breath taking London skyline left me with a dry mouth.
I wish I knew how to be braver.
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