I have been summering at home. My stay in England has been idyllic, and something my finances really cannot sustain.

Before arrival I stuffed my schedule full of people, and have spent my two weeks flitting about like a bat trapped in a sheet in a desperate attempt to see everyone, everywhere.

I have been to London, walked three miles in a windstorm down by the coast, and toured the south in search of a sandy beach summer that never occurred. I went to the Ritz for afternoon tea, spent some valuable time with the best South African woman in the world (I’m not modest about the quality of my friends), learned how to put up wallpaper, and after one too many celebratory lunch the weight I lost over the past four months found me again.


I also caught up on what I missed whilst I was away, like my brother’s spontaneous decision to grow a beard, and invitations to two weddings! One next summer, and one the spring after. I am ludicrously excited on behalf of my friends, and have already planned what to wear and who to bring as my plus one (I may be many things, but unprepared for a formal event is not one of them).

Really, if I’m quite honest, I’m not ready to go back to Paris just yet. I’ve seen most of the people I wanted to, but only once or twice, and it isn’t enough. Much as I love my Parisian life, it’s not a life in which everyone can visit me, and sometimes reunion makes a second parting all the harder.

And for the record, I was so completely right that coming home was going to be weird. The feeling was quite unnerving, because it was a new emotion I had never experienced before. A thousand tiny changes have occurred in my absence, funny, insigificant things which do not matter, but at the same time, mean a great deal.

The closest likeness I can draw is the frustrating feeling of finding a perfect sitting position, then moving and being unable to achieve the same satisfaction.


But there’s no time to get quite comfortable, because already my time here is coming to an end, and it’s time for me to head north, on to Glasgow for a week of frolicking about and helping my friend move house. As I will be, when I eventually arrive back in Paris.

New families to work with, and uni to attend have necessitated a move across the city, so September is really going to be a new start for me. Paris: mark two.

For now, I have to pack. Maybe I’ll write from Glasgow. Maybe I won’t. Either way, bon été à tous (what’s left of it, anyway). Life goes on, and I must go.