I guess that's why they call it the blues.

Kabul.  Second day back after R and R.

Last night, for the first time since I got to Afghanistan over 3 months ago, I was scared.  Proper scared.  It was scary when I arrived initially, but I wasn't scared.  Not like this. I have arrived back in Afghanistan after 2 weeks back in the UK on my mid-tour R and R.  I am now firmly ensconced in a very dingy, cramped, cold, noisy and, to my mind, very exposed, tent on the edge of the airfield at Kabul International Airport.  To prove my fears were founded, just as I got into bed - which was the top bunk of what I still feel is a very high bunk bed - we were rocketed.  Three times.  As I lay on the dusty floor, shivering in my boxer shorts I thought  "I'm scared".  Not scared of dying, although that, of course, would be bad and would probably lead to trouble...  More scared of dying in a stupid way, or in an undignified state of dress, or without being to fight back.  As time passed and I became more cold and less certain of my own miserable demise I started to think.  To be honest there's not much else you can do.  Unfortunately, lying on a sandy floor in your pants whilst being rocketed is not exactly conducive to positive thought. I thought - I miss my wife, I miss my children, I miss my parents.  I miss my bed and I miss my friends.  I miss cars, I miss cheese and onion crisps and I miss going to bed and not worrying about getting killed in the night.  I even miss N and her funny grumpiness. (Probably in that order) I am certain that my fears and subsequent thoughts were all down to the fact that I had just had two weeks R and R back in sunny old Blighty. Those days, seeing friends, kissing my wife and holding my children, made me realise what I had to lose. I kind of knew it on Day 1, but it's easy to push it away before you arrive, then when you arrive you don't have time to think.  Having subsequently spoken to a number of people, they have all experienced, to a greater or lesser extent, the same feelings following their R and R.  Strangely, they all relate it to Baby Blues.  A depression following an event of joy.  There is probably some deep seated psychological psychosis there, but let’s leave that for another time.

Anyway, having taken 3 days to get round to finishing this email, I can tell you the feeling has almost (almost) entirely dissipated.  Routine and reality have kicked in and not even the suicide bombing at the hospital the next day has produced feelings in anywhere near the intensity of that night.  The corny bit is, as I was lying there (won't mention the pants again), with the explosions of the rockets sounding like a storm I couldn't get a song out of my mind. (Still humming it in my head now)

Time on my hands could be time spent with you
Laughing like children, living like lovers
Rolling like thunder under the covers
And I guess that's why they call it the blues