I'm like a soldier with no cause to fight

So it's Sunday, I got back home early yesterday evening -- having had at least two phone calls from Laura on my way home wanting to know if I was back yet and when I would be back, since everyone was going out in honour of my return.

We ended up going out about an hour later than planned, since Jon was attempting to dye his hair blonde and was distraught at it going basically ginger. But we made it to the pub, if a little late, and although it was the first time in months everyone had apparently been out together, it felt no different to normal.

Perhaps it's just me. Maybe going out in honour of the return of an introvert means that the night really wasn't going to be a big deal. All the same, it didn't feel like I was the centre of attention -- which makes me an attention seeking introvert, if you follow.

It wasn't so bad though, it was just old times. I talked about Leicester to Austin who used to live there himself, and he asked me for relationship advice (I know, it makes little sense) since he and his girl had broken up this week after a year and a half together.

It's good being back home. It doesn't feel strange, like it has done before, it just feels good. I guess I really have been unhappy or lonely being away. But that troubles me -- I remember the feeling when I came home for the weekend before, the feeling of wanting to not go back. I remember when I'm away the feelings of wanting someone to just come and take me away. And everyone keeps saying to me "There's not long left" but that doesn't comfort me, my skills are still very rough and my confidence is still pretty shaky. Can I really be a professional journalist before the end of the year?

I keep hoping that someone will find my blog or my diary and like my writing and give me money to just write and not have to see anyone if I don't want to -- and certainly not walk the streets in the cold and the rain looking for a story. Nor write 110wpm shorthand. Or know about the role of elected mayors in local government.

How did this become my whining? I don't know. The cat says he doesn't know either, but if it's all the same he quite likes my writing and would pay me if he wasn't, y'know, a cat and all.