THURSDAY: It is the second day in Boston; I have been transcribing, and now my beloved is editing and answering email at the desk. Only one of us can use internet at any one time, though we both have laptops with us for writing-on purposes, although one of us can use the internet at any one time because he is cheap and I am scared of expenses forms. Instead, I am listening to him type, and reading – without the world wide hivemind at my fingertips – some form of dead tree matter which has a familiar feel to the stuff I would usually read online but in a font I cant change at will, and if I want to comment on it I have to seem to scribble on the bottom of the page with a biro.

After discussing the thing being edited on and off, his conversation becomes less as he becomes more email-oriented, and somehow, though it is still bright evening sunlight outside the window, the book flops down on my face and I drift off into a heavy, dream-filled sleep, half-cocked, half-sitting, half-alert.

(Seriously – anyone who said Woo! Holiday in Boston in the springtime, though, yay! is sadly further off the mark than I would wish for. anyone who ever thought I was even more boring in Boston than I am in real life – oh god, you have NO idea. Well, you probably do, now. You will even more when I post the other thing currently half-written and on draft)

Twenty minutes later I wake suddenly at the burst of some bad bubble in whatever horrible half-dream I was having, and half-mumble half-shout at the still bright window, staring at the beautiful sun shining on a world that I dont recognise.

What? Wherewhatwhat? But. BUT?

And then, sitting stock straight with my legs hanging off the side but not touching the floor on those stupid hotel beds that make all adults into infants, I – for no reason and with no reason – burst into confused and upset and angry tears. The kind of tears I last saw used by a two-year-old would use if woken up from a nap unexpectedly. Horizontal tears. Spraying like lawn sprinklers and watering everything in sight whether it needs it or not.

After a minute I stop, and have a shower and a twice-strong coffee from the wussy in-room coffee machine, and then I get better.

But sometimes, that is what it is like.

I always thought that jetlag just made you a bit tired.

And i dont know whether it is because of my general oversensitivity to seasons and light and weather and things, but a bit tired doesnt, annoyingly, cover it. Even slightly.