One day to go. The end of the holidays always has to arrive. I know that. But when it does arrive, don’t you always wish it hadn’t?

Finished my show Saturday; got on an Edinburgh-London train Sunday (we had half a mind to go to the Ashes on Monday, but didn’t book tickets just in case and we all know how that ended up, don’t we); and not tomorrow (that being Thursday) but the next day (that being Friday) we’re boarding a plane to Abu Dhabi at 6.30 am. Which means we have to be there at 4.30 which means we have to get up almost before we go to bed, so we’re going out to one of those hotels which charges cheap rates because they know you’ll only be there a few hours at most.

Tomorrow (that being Thursday) we’ll need to move our things from this extraordinarily expensive accommodation (I’m trying not to spend too much time converting the pounds to dollars, but oh my goodness, I don’t think we’ve ever spent more on a holiday than we have during these four days in London – how on Earth do people afford to live here) out to the airport hotel and then we’ll come back in and spend the day at the Natural History Museum, before back to the hotel for an early night and a few hours’ sleep before the sound of the many alarms that we will set just to be sure we don’t sleep in, though of course we won’t sleep in, because we won’t sleep at all, too worried will we be that we will sleep through our alarms.

What a time this has been.

I loved every single moment of Spain, even the moments I didn’t. My show was awesome, Edinburgh was gorgeous and I saw Carol Ann Duffy at the Storytelling Centre. Also, it has rained as much as I hoped it would, and if only I could teach my body to bank the cool.

The lads are looking forward to going back to school and have spent hours discussing their respective birthday parties and who will come and what they will do (two or perhaps three friends each for sleepovers). The mister will go back to work. And I will: try to push my second novel into shape; rewrite the back end of my script because I’ve over-used most of that in Adelaide already; and polish off a few essays that I’ve written on topics such as adult orphan-age, grief and art, grief and comedy, middle-aged creativity and other things, and then I will not send them anywhere because I just can’t stand the thought of them being rejected. I will also drink less and exercise more and that will not be such a bad thing.

Talk to you soon.