The last few days have kicked my ass. I’ve been racing towards the finish line on a typesetting and proofreading project, and late this afternoon deposited the massive package at the post office. It is a strange and good feeling to crawl out from under this weight I have been carrying about me. At some point this morning, after the leatherwood honey and banana sandwich but before the very small, very dark coffee, the delusions began. I kept thinking I needed to wrap up my work so I could go down the street for a slice of pizza – from Il Forno. On the Campo dei fiori. In Rome.

I’m telling you. Right then, at that moment – and was this after the honey and banana? after the muesli and yoghurt? – there was nothing surer, nothing more crystal clear, than the knowledge that I would go downstairs, ballerina pumps on slate grey steps, and I would open the door to the cobblestones of vicolo del Cinque. The sun would be out – I could feel it, warm on the back of my neck – and the little No. 125 bus would be coming round the corner.

Right now it feels like someone is inserting, one by tingle-inducing one, long, cold needles into my brain.