My suitcase lies open, packed and ready to go.

That was a lie.

My suitcase lies dusty and neglected, on top of my parents’ wardrobe. I have yet to pack, to write Elisabeth a birthday letter (happy birthday, soul sistah!) and to finish my essay.

I am a nocturnal thing.

My head is spinning like some out of control carousel. When I stand, the room spins. I half expect to garish plastic horses to whizz past. The next two weeks will be a whirlwind.

I am looking forward to my free house when I get back. Wine and girly evenings in.

Sod’s law; just as Judith gets back, full of tales of grown breasts and tan lines and French guys, family rifts over arty objects and Jasper Conran’s appearance at a wedding, Auschwitz survivors and feeding French chickens, just as we’ve established her favourite smoking place to be my roof at night (talking about shooting stars and wafting smoke over tiles), I go away. I let her sleep in this morning, left her a letter saying wakey wakey, get your own breakfast, love you. I got back from making daleks out of foam and sticky-back paper to find a sleepy note telling me I’m the bestest girl in the whole wide world. She spoilt it with her PS - I’ve stolen Jed’s grey hoody back.

Adios, England and my own bed. Hello sleepless nights, six days of being a real couple, and six more of being a proper German again.