London again. A month away made me forget where the dishes are. I mean, OK, kitchen, but where in the kitchen?

We got back yesterday afternoon – no bills! and a month of weekly magazine subscriptions! – and I fell asleep almost immediately. We went for a gander around the neighbourhood later, and it kept taking a second longer than usual to remember if we needed to turn left or right. We found our way to Earlham, finally, and I said, “This could be...great?” “This is weird right now,” I said, “but it could be great.”

I don’t know if it is weariness or ambivalence or all of it that is colouring the general apprehension about facing London again. A month of holidays sure puts you out of touch with the daily grind. Plus, the daily grind has ground itself anew: Maison Bertaux, the crumbly old teahouse that’s, seemingly, been on Greek Street for a hundred years, has opened a bright white half-teahouse in the shop space next to the original. “Um,” I said as we came up to it, and “Oh,” I said as we passed it, and “Well,” I said as we walked by, my head still turned in surprise.

Also, there are two new free newspapers being handed out by earnest paperboys all over town. Olive spent the evening doing an explication de texte on each of them – “So trashy!” he would say, breaking his silent concentration – before he said, concluding: “London Lite is better than The London Paper – it has more gossip.”

This morning I am still hovering in that half-space between Paris and London, but I understand there is a bank overdraft of five pounds eighty I need to go deal with.