And still no decision, also my kidney hates me

It has now been just about two months since I wrote A Tale of Two Cities (And My Wobbly Knees), a post in which I confidently identified a problem — two empty months on the calendar, two cities fighting for my attention — and then, with the discipline and follow-through of a man who has never once finished a New Year’s resolution, did absolutely nothing about it. October and November remain exactly as empty as they were in July. I have achieved eight weeks of extremely thorough procrastination. If indecision were a sport, I would currently be up for European Championship selection.

The original arguments still stand, by the way. London still has its comfort-food musicals and its unconquered Eye. Paris still has Atelier des Lumières quietly judging me from across the Channel — or the Manche, depending on which side of my own indecision I’m standing on that day. Nothing has been resolved. I have simply let the problem marinate, like a stew nobody’s bothered to put on the heat.

🐞 Enter the NFL, Uninvited But Not Unwelcome

Just to make sure I hadn’t gotten too comfortable in my paralysis, I discovered that the NFL is bringing six games to Europe over the coming weeks, all conveniently scheduled in October. Three in London. One in Paris. Which, on paper, sounds like exactly the tie-breaker I’ve been praying for — a bolt of American gridiron clarity descending from the heavens to finally settle the London-versus-Paris cage match once and for all.

Except it isn’t, because the NFL, in its infinite and slightly sadistic wisdom, decided to plant a flag in both cities. One f* — sorry, one — of the two cities would have needed to be left off the schedule for this to work as a deciding factor. Instead I’ve been handed a coin that landed on its edge. Thanks for nothing, NFL. You had one job: pick a side so I wouldn’t have to.

🐞 A Third Contender Enters the Ring

As if two cities weren’t already enough to stare blankly at over coffee, Mallorca has now sauntered into the conversation, deeply unbothered, holding a mojito. We had a genuinely lovely time on our recent Balearic trip, and there’s a reasonably strong case for a return visit: it’s closer than Paris or London, which matters more than I’d like to admit at this stage of life, and I’ve since learned that Palma switches on its Christmas lights at the end of November.

Is that an incentive? I don’t know. I’m asking the room. Palma’s Christmas lights are doing an admirable job of campaigning for a slot on my calendar, but I remain suspicious of any city that tries to win me over with fairy lights the way an ex tries to win you back with a playlist. Charming, sure. Load-bearing decision, not so sure.

All of this, mind you, is quite separate from the fact that I also intend to visit Germany — Hannover specifically — in early December, ostensibly for the Christmas markets but really to see family and friends before Christmas, since we’ll be spending the actual day itself in Asia. So we’re not talking about one trip I can’t decide on. We’re talking about a whole autumn logistics puzzle with London, Paris, and Mallorca applying for the October/November slots while Hannover has already quietly locked in December and is watching the rest of us squabble with popcorn.

🐞 The Actual Actual Problem

Here is where things currently stand, medically rather than geographically: as I write this, there is a constant twinge in my left side. Not yet pain — I want to be precise about that, because I have a PhD-level personal expertise in the distinction — just an insistent little reminder that my kidney stone is up to its usual mischief. There is a bit of blood making an unscheduled appearance too, which is the body’s way of sending a memo nobody asked for.

This is stone number five, for those keeping score at home, and my track record is unambiguous: every single one of my previous four has required surgical eviction. None of them has ever simply shown itself out. My kidneys, apparently, do not believe in doing things the easy way, which I suppose is a family trait — the same stubbornness that’s kept London, Paris, and Mallorca all in play simultaneously for two full months has clearly migrated south and taken up residence in my urinary tract.

And here’s the thing about kidney stones that nobody tells you until you’re five stones deep: they don’t care about your travel plans. They don’t care that Palma’s lights go on at the end of November, or that the NFL scheduled its games with such unhelpful symmetry, or that there’s a version of October where I’m sipping something overpriced at the London Eye’s base, gathering courage. There is, quite simply, no booking anything — flights, theatre, immersive light shows, anything requiring me to be upright and functional in a foreign country — until this stone has made its exit, one way or another, and given my history, “another” means a hospital and a surgeon with better aim than me.

So here I sit: three cities auditioning for my empty calendar, one uninvited kidney stone holding the entire production hostage backstage, and one mildly furious blogger who has just realised the single most productive thing he can do about any of this, right this very moment, is get up and pour himself another pint of water.

Progress, of a sort.

Return to Mission Control