I'm relieved to step into my apartment at the end of the day, shut the door behind me and shut out the world for a little while.
I appreciate her kindness when she offers me a cup of tea. I sip at it as I wait outside, listening to the rise and fall of voices.
I stalk around from one place to another - a corner of the cafe, a public computer, an armchair at the library - as if any one of those spots will contain an escape hatch.
We tend to clump together at every meal, the comfortable bunch of us.
Fat bumblebees have emerged in full force, rocketing out of rhododendrons, evergreen shrubs and porch eaves.
The last day of the holiday we go for a walk. Sticky blossoms shower down on our heads; we pick them out of our hair and off our shoulders.
I know what the outcome will be, even before I hear it pronounced. I spend the rest of the day frustrated and exhausted, trying to sketch out the bright side to myself and half-succeeding. Good can come out of this. I just wish I'd known what to do early on; it would have saved me time, energy, and this sinking sensation that I still won't get it right.