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Have been back from Iceland one month today. How that time has gone by so quickly I'll never know. It has been so strange sitting at work or on the tube thinking about what I was doing and where I was this time 3, 4, 5 weeks ago. My little notebook from then has wrinkled edges from when it fell in the snow, and just now in a bag I found a sharp reminder of a piece of volcanic glass discovered at Hrafntinnusker.

Normally on trips I get homesick and have at least one horrid day, but this one was different. There was no gut-wrenching "what am I doing?" feeling and every day was truly wonderful, even the days when Iceland was trying to scare me. I fell through some ice a few times, was nearly blown off a cliff and woke up shivering most nights, but the simple fact that these things were real and actually happening made the whole thing exciting.

This morning there was black sand in the bottom of a sock, remnants of that evening by the lake at Álftavatn. After maybe the best day of walking on the whole trip, in perhaps the most beautiful place I'd ever seen, I felt strangely sad. Sat on the black beach, totally in awe at my surroundings, the thought of having to go home made me feel sick. Was it the thought that I'd have to return to my tiny, noisy flat in London instead of going "home" to York? It didn't feel natural going back there, but it was the same with York, which feels less and less like home every day. The walk around the lake snapped me out of it thankfully, especially when I fell into a bog. There were little streams running into the lake, and bright green patches of moist moss to drink from- the cleanest and coldest water imaginable.

By the end of the trek I was broken but happy. My face was black from the ash blown in my face and my mouth was full of sand. Two showers were needed to get it all off and even then there was sand in the bed the next morning.

Want to be there still, so badly.

Back in York and on my way home in the early hours, my legs take over and let me enjoy some music. They know the route so well, they've done it thousands of times before. I used to wonder whether I could do it with my eyes closed. It was certainly possible whilst reading a book on the way to work or school, locked away in my own world bu still aware enough to read-walk safely. No books tonight though, too dark, and night walks and music go together so perfectly. Stopping at the corner of the street where the one-eyed cat used to sit and let me tickle its chin, I took out my earphones and enjoyed the silence. "Home Home Home" I said to myself in my head, for no special reason other than it felt like the right thing to say there and then.
I find the key under the basket outside and carefully open the front door. The stairs don't creak as much as expected but still I manage to progress up them like a Stegosaurus, waking the whole house in the process. A sleepy hello and an apology later and I'm in my room again. Hello bed, old friend. Wrapped up warm, I hear an owl tooting from somewhere in the apple tree in our garden. Never heard him before, he must be new in the neighbourhood. So he toots away, plying his nocturnal trade and sleep comes at last.

London- this place is full of so many pockets of memory, of people and things long forgotten. It's too bloody big for its own good, swallowing up friends and semi-friends who reappear every now and then and make you wish you'd made more of an effort. It's easy to hate this place for that reason, and several others. Tonight, a phonecall from a friend since primary school who, despite having lived here the same amount of time, I've hardly ever seen. Then a text, come to Islington. Onto the Tube and I'm there in next to no time, running up the escalator to catch the last half hour of the match with drinks and jokes thrown in. They're doing well, it's good to see.
A missed call from an old girlfriend - sorry, my pocket called you, but still, it's good it did. Shall we meet soon? It's easy to get swallowed up here but then chance meetings occur. Thursday at Earl's Court, on my way back from a pointless journey south of the river, a hand on my arm and it's Will. Not much to tell him really, just surviving and wondering why I'm still here. He said tonight that I looked lost that day on the platform and lost is how I felt.
It's odd. Everybody and everything is here but it's so hard to keep hold of it all.

Just now, whilst trying to find my lost camera I came across my old diary from exactly 10 years ago. Back then I was 15-16, a bit obsessive about stupid little things and quite lonely. Some of it was quite funny/embarrasing to read, in an angsty-teenage way, but some of it was rather sad. How I ever wrote some of that stuff I'll never know and shouldn't analyse too much because it's long-gone. All I know is that not long after that time things got a lot better, and having a diary helped. Aside from all the "poor me" writings I filled the book full of things that caught my eye - newspaper clippings, old photos, old train tickets, letters - memories packed together and still looking new. On one page I'd had a "smell memory" section, on which somehow I'd transferred smells that reminded me of certain times and people. Sadly most of the scents have vanished, but one (that of an olive shower gel that reminded me of a certain song) is still clinging on 10 years on.

Being an invalid here for the past few weeks hasn't be a lot of fun. My knee still hurts, though I can move it around and walk OK. Last night though there was a shot of pain right through it that made me gasp and wonder whether it had gone wrong again. Please get better, poor little knee.

I'm back in York, this time for much longer than a couple of weeks and not for a holiday. Thursday gone was my second knee operation and I'm up here recovering, or that's the plan at least. Day 1 into recovery time and I'm already rather frustrated and bored. I had a lot of stuff planned but because I'm not really allowed to move I can't get my stuff from downstairs or really unpack it because that means bending down and making my knee go CRUNCH and starting the whole process again.
The operation day itself was quite good fun. I got to the hospital early, was given my hospital clothes and in no time they had me on the table with a needle in my hand. The doctors were asking about my book and the next thing I knew I was waking up with a oxygen mask on, breathing in the most wonderful gas and feeling deliciously drowsy. Around my right leg an unnvervingly huge bandage had appeared, and deep inside my knee another piece of cartilage had disappeared. Despite all this hard work the whole thing is pretty much fucked according to the surgeons, who tried to put a brave face on it. One of them did look pretty upset at telling me the news, but there is much worse news to tell in the World than a knee that has given up.
When they gave me the crutches I could have hugged them, and a great help they've been too, though the people in the pub on Sunday treated me like a war hero, which was rather uncomfortable. They gave me some hardcore painkillers as well, which on the first day made me feel like I was flying and now don't seem to do much.

So now I lie in bed and wait to get better, though no one knows how long it will take. There are things I want to do and people I want to see, but for now I'm tied to this bed. If I can get to my stuff there are a few things to do:

1. carry on learning icelandic.
2. read the many great books I bought for this time.
3. write letters.
4. write things for wordpress, which is a bit of a complex site but I've got time to work it out.
5. maybe look for other work.
6. translation (both for work and on "aminas breve")

It would be good to go and sit in the garden too and watch the birds but I nearly fell down the stairs on my crutches earlier, so guess that will have to wait.

Things like this jumper make winter a lot of fun. I found it on my wanderings yesterday and am really rather insanely happy with it. I've been looking for one for years but all attempts have been scuppered, but as soon as this year's winter chills started to arrive one has finally made its way onto my shivering body. I put it straight on and wore it home proudly, and on the way to work this morning. Taking it off was awful and made me very cold.
Hats, scarves and gloves are great too, though my new York City scarf seems to bring bad luck so I am reluctant to wear it. The gloves are 2 years old now and still have a wiff of Bovril about them.
Want to sleep in my jumper.
By the way, look here: http://woozywithcider.wordpress.com/
It looks pretty crap at the minute but it's early days and there's time to learn all the fancy stuff. Will be putting more stuff on there than here.

I’ve been living by myself in Chiswick for almost 2 months now, and although it is good to have some independence some things have remained the same.
I don’t feel like I’m doing anything useful down here. Now that Karoline and I are no more there is no real reason for me to be in London, so why stay? Talking to Neil recently he said that now there was no reason why I can’t go back to York, but do I really want to do that? What would I do there? As much as I love it there the opportunities are so limited, especially compared to London. Yes, I’d be amongst my friends again and be part of that whole York family once more, but that’s taking the easy way out. It’s too early to start getting comfy again. York is the kind of place you want to go back to later in life when your adventures are over, but still something is drawing me there.
If not York, then where? Denmark maybe? It has crossed my mind almost constantly since leaving 3 years ago, but so has the thought that I would be trying to hard to make it like the year in Aarhus. But it doesn’t have to be like that, it can be a new start with a new purpose. I’d need a job of course, and to not be so shy so that I get out and meet people and do things.
If not Denmark then somewhere, anywhere. A new European capital- Berlin, Reykjavík, Amsterdam, they could all be good. I just need to do something because I’m stagnating here.
But then giving up my job, even though it doesn’t pay well, would be a really stupid idea given the way the World is right now. At least I’m saving a bit of money, which I can put towards Scandi adventures and rent for a bigger and better flat in the future. It’s just a case of hanging on in there for the time being.

I'm sat at work right now, the rain is pouring outside and I have a big cup of peppermint tea and all seems good. I'm on my own here today, which I don't mind at all.
Things have finally settled down again after a chaotic summer. I was living out of a suitcase after leaving Battersea. Most of that time was spent living with my grandma in St. Albans, which was really quite a special time as we have never spent so long in eachother's company. She spoiled me a lot, which was great of course but I felt bad for her because she works so hard to make other people happy but doesn't do anything for herself. I wanted so badly to contribute something and make my stay less of a burden on her, but she is a real trooper and always will be. She refused any money from me the whole time. The £20 notes I left for her were always waiting for me on my pillow when I got home. I got into a new rhythm there and started to get comfortable.
The other times I was living at Will's place in Dalston. He lives right next to a canal, in an old factory that is full of artistic types. In the month and a half I was there I stayed in all of the rooms as each member of the household went off on various travels. They each have a mezzanine in their rooms, with big comfy chairs and interesting books on the shelves. The sound of rain on the glass roofs was incredible. They made me feel very welcome there.
Eventually I found a room in Chiswick. 8 other people were waiting to see it with me and they all thought it was shit and too small, but it seemed just right for me. I moved in a month ago and in typical Lawrence fashion hated it for a few days, or rather hated the change aspect, but now I'm comfy in there. It's small but it's cosy and has its own shower. In the evenings I watch people play tennis out of my window and listen to the birds singing in the park nearby. It's good to have my own space again. In 6 months or so I'll look for somewhere bigger but for now it's just fine.
Things could have been very different though, mainly for the reason that Karoline and I are no longer together. After yet another misunderstanding that snowballed into a full on argument over nothing she said she'd had enough and ended it. Although I'd seen it coming for a long time and it was probably for the best it was still hard to take. The following few days were very strange and it seemed like she regretted doing it, but eventually we both agreed that we love eachother but disagree on too many things, big things mainly. This is not the time to go into all of those disagreements but the simple story is that we couldn't work out our differences. Now we are still friends and still talk to eachother every day, which is a good situation to be in because not having her around anymore would be horribly tough. I'm just happy that she wants to stick around, I'm not used to it.

No visitors have come in yet, time for a book and another cup of tea.

I'm sat in a rocking chair up on a mezzanine, listening to the applause-like sound of rain on the frosted glass roof and wishing that this place was my own.
My friend Will went travelling 3 weeks ago and offered me his room while he was away. He and I have a history of room/flat swopping and this is by far the best place I have ended up in. It's an old print factory down by Regent's Canal in Hackney, a 15 minute canoe's paddle (you see a lot of canoes around here) from the Mews where we both lived years back. It's part of a huge block of converted flats, partly crumbled and ramshackle but still sturdy and cosy inside. Each room has a mezzanine level, accessible by means of ladders (a dangerously precarious one in Will's case) where each person has made their own little world. Will being the writer he is has ammassed books and DVDs on shelves. Tom has books too and maps of the city and the Shipping Forecast and this wonderful rocking chair. Tea uses her extra level as her studio, with aged wooden boxes fixed to the walls full of fabric and boxes of thread. Below the mezzanines are cave-like bedrooms with white lego brick walls, through which I can hear the Danish neighbours speaking and cooking.
The kitchen is a sitting room, with a communal table and two comfy armchairs either side of the door looking out over the canal. During the day time, if we're home, we'll sit and watch the barges go by and observe the kids from the local school on their canoe lessons. In the evenings we'll sit and talk and listen to music and help eachother cook, chopping veggies and slicing bread. During the warm days I came home from work and the whole block was sat outside, some on sofas, others on the grassy landing places cooling their feet in the water. If you look closely enough you can see the fat fish in the murky depths.
Will came back today so I have moved into Tom's room, who left for Morocco a few days ago. At first I was a little sad as I was getting used to sleeping in there and had begun to make it my own, spending hours up on the mezzanine, occasionally saying hello to the little cat that likes to walk across the roof and stare down at me. But I am glad Will is back. He can tell me about his adventures. He has been a great friend to let me stay here, and it feels like Tom and Tea are becoming friends too. The Danes next door have invited me for dinner one night soon too.
Leaving Battersea was incredibly difficult as I hate change and disruption, but so far this is feeling good inside. I want to stay.

Gosh, I really should get to sleep. I know I don't start work until 12.45 tomorrow but it's horrid to wake up all heavy-eyed and with a painful, sleepy head. Still, making the most of Will's room while I still have it is worth every minute. When I got home I climbed up onto the mezzanine and did an hour or two of writing for the Matador travel article. It's so great how he has a work area up there, with desks and book shelves filled with all sorts of fascinating reads and DVDs. It is so easy to work up there with no distractions at all (well, a local puss cat startled me somewhat the other morning by chasing a bird across the glass roof, but I'll let him off).
Karoline came to stay last night and it was quite funny both of us trying to fit into the tiny bed, huffing and puffing and moaning about having no room whilst accidentally (or not) elbowing eachother when manoevering for space. Poor her, she was out like a light, so tired she was. I woke up and she was hogging most of the mattress and duvet as usual, whilst I was about an inch from falling to the floor. It didn't matter though because I have missed silly little things like this.
I like being here. I feel settled. Spoke to Tea for ages this evening and she is in a similar situation me right now. Feel really sorry for her. She is so creative and talented and doesn't get the time to show how much. She's a great believer in doing what you love and I admire her for that. It is fun living with her and Tom. Maybe Will can extend his trip a bit longer!
At The Jewel Tower tomorrow. I stopped by there the other day during one of the scorching days on the pretence that I needed to check my hours for next week, but really I just wanted to hang around there for a bit because it is so beautiful and peaceful there. Met Paul outside and together we rescused a raven with a poorly wing from the moat. It hopped off before we could call the RSPB. Hope it's ok and that its wing will mend.

Sleeps