I slept for two days, and then it was time to wake up. Olive had made a strawberry brownie.

I am easing into London again, with Rilo Kiley on Volume High. There is laundry to be done, and work to hustle. But first, there is lunch. Yesterday the wind blew me and Hens into Hi Sushi for large, steaming bowls of sukiyaki ramen and salmon dons topped with plump, squishy roe. We hadn’t seen each other in three months and some, and our hair has grown.

We have hare-brained schemes, Hens and me, on, well, let’s call it hiatus, while our husbands are at work. For one, we are going to strong-arm our friend Marcello into coughing up a contact at the BBC so we can have our own travel show on the telly. “Do you want to go to Eastern Europe?” Hens had said, innocently, so innocently. “Come!” I said. “Croatia?” I was picking corn out of my soup kernel by kernel. “Yes,” she said, “and Istanbul? And then Morocco?” “I want to go to all these places,” I said. “You know,” she said, and delicately she bit into her sashimi, “I am choosing these destinations based only on the Easyjet flight routes.” The TV show was clear in my mind, like the water that sparkles off the Adriatic Coast. “We will travel along the Easyjet routes only,” I said, “and the show will be called” – and we were egging each other on now, though my mother (Hello, Mowmy!) will be proud to hear I did not wave my chopsticks around – “Easygirls.”