Someone pass Keegan the swear jar

So many plosives, so little time left for the Tories tribute to The Thick of It...

This is a subscriber only post from The Flock with Jennifer Crichton. Thank you for being here. You keep this newsletter going and I really and truly appreciate you.

One of the great joys of living abroad is feeling that you have two places to call home.

To have two nations that give you that walking into the bar in Cheers feeling, two entire countries where a few people, at least, know your name, is genuinely brilliant.

At least once a day here, my inner 13-year-old escapes in the form of a grin, delighted with her wee self that her Jagged Little Pill-sountracked dream to get the hell out of dodge (AKA, small town suburban Scotland) became a reality.

The flip side of that teenage dream, however, is that once you’ve gotten the hell out of dodge, you really start to miss it. Dodge becomes paradise. A flawed Heaven. It is, after all, where everybody knows your name - and where once that was suffocating, away from home on a long-term basis it seems strangely comforting.