Byron flew to San Francisco on Saturday, and arrives back in England today at lunchtime. During his whirlwind visit he presented a paper at a conference, had meetings with various colleagues, went on madcap shopping adventures to track down new trousers, spent a few evenings with Jen K, and drove to Sonoma for an overnight house-party-river-adventure fifth anniversary celebration for Hiya and Jonathan. It is safe to assume that he also spent a lot of time talking to his interns, checked in code several times each day, and probably thought of some new important mathematical innovation.
How did he manage all this? I doubt that he slept more than a few hours all week. This is his normal routine, at home or away.
This schedule is not sustainable. His primary stated reason for moving to England was to relax, but he has already managed to forfeit five weeks of paid leave, because he is too busy to go on holiday. We both have a fairly demented (and very American) notion that we are on vacation when we get to travel for work. We return home from intense trips and wonder why we are so tired.
This is the end of what people call summer hols for the children. It has also been raining steadily most days. The most ambitious thing we’ve attempted was a dash to Ely one rare sunny afternoon to look at the Cathedral (I haven’t yet managed to find the church with Etheldreda’s withered hand, but my children do not enjoy such morbid curiosities).
Other than that, I’ve been sitting in my pajamas on the boat, researching places to go for an official holiday trip. Various friends have offered extremely helpful tips; now I just need to choose and book a hotel room before I give up in confusion over distances and train schedules.
I’ve also been reading the hilarious A Fete Worse than Death (dunno how to make the accent mark) by Iain Aitch. This is possibly the closest I will get to the sort of holiday I would enjoy, as my family members consistently veto excursions to view things like ferret racing and historical re-enactments.
They couldn’t be coaxed to go to Grantchester to watch local women being rolled around in barrels – even when we thought one of our friends would be in a barrel. Though to be fair, half the family would prefer not to go outside. Ever.