I've heard it said the trick, is to set your watch when you hit the plane.
Frank Turner

Saturday

He wondered, as the plane began to descend, if he'd have jet lag. He'd have to try and stay awake all day, then he could sleep all night – the sooner he got himself into the routine, the easier it would be. He cursed himself silently for having not slept a wink. He found himself wishing he had booked a flight that landed in the evening the night before, as opposed to early Saturday morning. He smiled at the sight of the cars, buzzing down the left-hand side of the motorway; the red brick houses; a massive Tesco; a corner shop; a cricket pitch; a group of kids playing football (not soccer).

It didn't take long to collect his bags, and in a matter of minutes he was being suffocated by his mother's hold.

"Hi," He managed to gasp, as she finally let go of him.

"You look too skinny," It was so ridiculously clichéd that he couldn't help laughing – it confirmed he was home; which, in turn, made him indescribably happy. "How was your flight?"

"Fine," He wheeled his 2 bags behind him; all his larger items had arrived in a cargo plane weeks before and were currently piled up in Mum's garage until he managed to find an apartment. "Plane food was awful,"

"I've got a leg of lamb for tonight," He felt like falling down to his knees and worshiping her; could any woman ever be more perfect? "Do they have meat in Boston?"

"We had it for Christmas dinner last time you visited?"

"Oh, I know, what I meant was, do they have it regularly? Or is it just for special occasions?"

"Lamb?"

"No, just meat in general,"

"Mum, I'm fairly sure I was living in the world's largest super power; not the third world," To be fair, he hadn't eaten meat a lot recently – it required too much skill and time to cook, and with only himself to cook for, he would have been left with a pile of leftovers if he ever attempted a joint, consequently most nights he opted for pasta – it was like going back to his student days. Lilly, predictably, hadn't been the most proficient of chefs either – when she was still on the scene, he spent most nights eating out at her stupid vegan restaurants. He really missed meat.

"Don't try to be clever," She scolded, hitting him on the arm. "It's just a lot of them are vegetarians, like Lilly, aren't they?" I'm a vegan actually, Harry. There's a distinct difference... He shuddered at the memory of her long speech about the average calorie intake of each option, and the effectiveness for weight loss; in hindsight, he should have realised there and then that she wasn't really for him – a woman who justified her lifestyle choice not by discussing the ethics, but the pros and cons as if she were advertising it for Weight Watchers. But her eyes were so pretty; he didn't really need to listen to her when he had those eyes to stare at all night. He cursed himself, not for the first time, for being stupid enough to carry on, in the hope there would be some sort of substance behind the beautiful mask of porcelain skin and oceanic eyes and husky whispered tones.

"Whatever you say," He hoisted his heavy bags into the boot, and soon they were on their way home, his Mum at the wheel, and therefore designated DJ for the journey – it was a rule Dad had made up when Harry was little, to stop him requesting ABBA constantly; 'the driver of the car is the only one allowed to touch the radio', it had stuck, even after his death, and continued to be abided by, even when Harry's Mum was the passenger (those journeys were, naturally, filled with ABBA classics, much to her dismay).

"So, how was your journey?" She asked as she pulled the car out and he slunk down into his seat.

"Fine, apart from the little delay,"

"Little delay?" She scoffed. "I was waiting so long I had to go to Starbucks. Do you know how much a coffee costs there?" Harry sighed and looked out the window – the 45 minute drive to his childhood home was going to be a long one.

"Mum, I told you how to check my flight number online to see if there were delays,"

"£3! The cheek of it. It was too bloody milky, as well." He had noticed, that she had begun to swear around him a lot more frequently and had stopped apologising for it, forgetting any previous notions of being a 'good role model' – he wasn't sure if this was in correlation with her age increasing, or his. He wondered if anyone else hadn't heard their mother curse casually until they were over 40.

He leant his head against the window; not to sleep, of course – he had to adjust his body clock as soon as possible, which meant no mid-morning naps – he was just attempting shut himself off from his surroundings, hoping to filter out Radio 4's Women's Hour, along with any of his mother's questions.

"When are you seeing Nikki then?" It was a question that had been playing on his mind too – they'd had a brief conversation over the phone a week prior, but that was just telling her his flight details. And before that, for years, there had been nothing except a Christmas card. Both leading busy lives, 3000 miles from each other – of course they didn't have the time to sustain their friendship, no matter what they had told each other when he first moved out there.

"Not sure,"

"She's still very pretty, you know; saw her the other day, not as pretty as she was the last time you saw her of course, but still very pretty." He had to admit that he had trouble imagining her ever being prettier than she was the last time he saw her; a wide smile spread across her lips, beneath a thin white veil, a long trail of blank silk running behind her. "Have you spoken to her recently?"

He closed his eyes and pretended not to hear her; maybe sleeping wasn't such a bad idea.

I know, I know, I have FAR too many unfinished things. But this is the only this is the only thing I've been wanting to write – sorry! Please, please review, so I know whether to continue?