Time at ten

Time. In the beginning, it felt like it didn't exist. I had no sense of it whatsoever. Nothing meaningful to mark the passing of it. Those usual markers of mealtimes, day, night, none of them existed for me. Even what happened during those first impossible days is forgotten, like those things didn't exist either. Nothing mattered to me except that you were gone, and that was something I just couldn't comprehend, wouldn't accept. It wasn't true.

Gradually time re-emerged, as if through a dense fog. Only now it moved at snail's pace. Minutes took hours to pass, hours days, days weeks. I tolerated time, but it brought me no pleasure, as each second that passed carried me, involuntarily, further away from you. I dug my heels in and resisted that, clinging desperately to the hope that I could reverse time and go back to when you were there, when everything was normal, before this horror began.

Then, at some undefined point, I must have got back onto 'normal' time. I marked your one year anniversary (how could that be?). Then two and three and now, somehow, here we are at ten. Ten FFS. That's a whole decade. Almost a quarter of my life.

Time has moved on but oh, you are so missed. By so many. And you are remembered, talked about, loved, as - for as long as I'm alive at least - you always will be. Thanks for the memories, oh those memories! Thanks for teaching me (in the hardest possible way) that life is there to be lived. Thanks for making me the happy person I am today, loved once again by someone you'd approve of wholeheartedly I'm sure. Thanks for being the amazing, interesting person you were (ten years on and I'm still clearing the loft of your random stuff - didgeridoo anyone?! - you bugger!). Rest in peace my darling Tim, you really were one in a million. Here's to you!

Another thing to add to the list of things I never dreamt I'd be doing by 38

Sitting on my husband's death bed - literally, saying my painful goodbyes to him at the hospital and later at the funeral home, arranging and attending my poor 33-year-old husband's funeral, going to his inquest, attending a probate court and now, finally, commissioning a headstone. All things that appear on my list of impossible, incomprehensible, won't happen to us/me, couldn't cope even if it did happen, list of things I never ever dreamt I'd be doing by the age of 38 (just!).

The headstone has been challenging. It's been on my list of things to do for years. Almost six in fact. I beat myself up about that for a while. But accepted that I had to do it when I was ready. During that time I've done lots of thinking, had some life coaching to help with that thinking, sought advice and opinion from family and friends, done some headstone research (how odd it is to write that), stalled, delayed, procrastinated and now finally feel ready to do this.

Life coaching helped me acknowledge that I wanted T's headstone to be a tribute to the beautiful, amazing, incredible, loving, caring man who was my husband. A carefully-crafted stone proudly bearing his name and commemorating his life for all who visit to see. A reflection of the love I will always have for him, and a lasting tribute to the life of this son, brother, uncle, son-in-law, brother-in-law, colleague, friend, lover and husband who touched the lives of many. His grave is a small physical space for someone who left such a big gaping hole in the lives of the people who loved him, so the headstone needs to symbolise that love to the outside world. It needs to reflect T's strength of character and it needs to stand proud against the elements, watching over him when I can't be there to do so, which is often.

I have settled on using Lakeland slate, mainly because of T's connection to the Lakes. I introduced him to the Lake District in 1998 - a 21st birthday present - and he fell in love with the place. We returned several times in the intervening years and it's also where he chose to propose to me back in 2005. Definitely a special place for both of us. And I've chosen to commission a stonemason to craft T's headstone; a talented artist who is dedicated to his craft. I visited his workshop to see and touch his work, which was really important to me, and I know he's the right person for this job. Between us we'll do T proud and that makes me feel good.

I know there are still Headstone Hurdles ahead of me. I know that seeing the final stone - first in the workshop then at T's grave - will make it all very permanent and real and bring everything flooding back. (How how how can my gorgeous, young husband be in a grave right now, as I type in our flat, our home? How can that be? I need to go and get him out of there, bring him home, pick up where we left off...) But I also know that from then on, whenever I visit T's grave, I'll see a physical tribute to the person who was T and all he represented and I'll be proud. Happy and sad all at once, but proud of my beloved husband.

Beautiful Ruins

A quick post as I want to record some quotes from a recent book I read. More for my musings I guess, but thought this was as good a place as any to log them:

She tossed her hair back. "I've been thinking about how people sit around for years waiting for their lives to begin, right? Like a movie. You know what I mean?… I know I felt that way. For years. It was as if I was a character in a movie and the real action was about to start at any minute. But I think some people wait forever, and only at the end of their lives do they realise that their life has happened while they were waiting for it to start."

- - - - - - -

"All we have is the story we tell. Everything we do, every decision we make, our strength, weakness, motivation, history, and character - what we believe - none of it is real; it's all part of the story we tell! But here's the thing: it's our goddamned story!"

- - - - - - -

There would seem to be nothing more obvious, 
more tangible and palpable that the present moment. 
And yet is eludes us completely.
All the sadness of life lies in that fact.
- Milan Kundera

All taken from Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter. A great book.

Roman Holiday

It's been brought to my attention that I haven't posted anything for ages. Something that I'm very aware of, but when I'm working I find blogging difficult on two counts. One is that my working life is mundane, I just don't feel the inclination to post anything - what would I even say? The second is that I lack time, and when I'm not feeling it, the posts take even longer to write. But anyway, given that I'm currently in Rome, neither of those excuses wash. So this goes out to you Lukester - with thanks for still checking in and for chasing a post xx

Given I spend half my life in Italy, it's actually a sacrilege that I've not been to Rome before now, but here I am on my first ever Roman Holiday. (Pretty shit that I've not seen the film either, come to mention it). I arrived yesterday and have had a couple of days on my own before my Italian and French friends arrive tomorrow and we're here until Sunday, so just under a week for me in this stunning city.

Rome isn't what I was expecting. It's much smaller - I've walked everywhere so far. And way more beautiful. I was expecting the history and the architecture but I was also expecting to have to put up with some less pleasant parts, like any big city, but it's not like that. It's like one big museum. It feels safe and full of tourists - like really full, by the orange-cap, audio-guide-wearing groupful. And there's historic monuments on every corner, including Roman ruins. That's Roman. And not just a bit of wall here and there. I'm talking pillars and foundations and proper intact stuff. You become a bit blasé about them after a while. Except the ruined temple that was built in the third century BC that is now a flippin' cat sanctuary - that got my attention!

The Trevi fountain is amazing - the scale of it, in a relatively small piazza, is incredible. The simplicity of the Pantheon is beautiful. And the fact it was built by Hadrian gets it instant kudos with this Northumbrian. The pristine whiteness of the Vatican against the bluest of skies this morning was stunning. I could go on and on… And the city is so green too. There's lots of trees and parks and a big wide brown river. I'm not sure why it's brown - I need to Google that. 

I've been disappointed by the food to date. I wonder if there's a correlation with the high proportion of tourists? I had an average pizza in an average restaurant last night, then tonight I sent my fish back twice as it was uncooked in the middle and I then refused to eat the mashed up, reheated, dry effort they brought me on the third try. I just paid for the wine and walked. Serves me right for not just going cheap and cheerful maybe. Given how much I love my food and how much I connect food with location, I was really disappointed. Not to mention the thought that goes into choosing where I eat when dining solo. But hey ho.

After agonising over which hotel to book, I'm really pleased I chose the one I did. It's more like a boutique B&B. The staff are super friendly, it's clean and modern and there's fresh flowers in my room - which is a lovely touch. It's really near Piazza Navona and has proved a great base for all the sights. And one of my favourite parts of the city so far is right on my doorstep - the little 'vicoli' or small streets that wind their way towards the river. Today I abandoned my guide book and just wandered and it was liberating and quiet and relatively tourist-free. Such a contrast to my sit at the Trevi fountain where I lost count of the number of photos I was asked to take.

While waiting for fish attempt number two or three to appear at dinner tonight, I had that realisation that I eventually get in most places I go to about why I'm actually here, and here on my own at that. I sent up a silent thanks to T who, through his death, has given me all of these opportunities - these places and friends and sights and sounds. The things that all add up to make my life as amazing as it is. I'm grateful and lucky and right now, I'm very happy. To be here in Rome, even alone. But knowing that this time tomorrow I'll be surrounded by laughter and love and food and drink and the prospect of four sunny, fun-filled days ahead of us. And I guess although I'm not particularly happy that I've got sucked back into the work vortex (just over a year in the same job - say it quick, it's the only way), work does make these holiday times even more special. I can certainly think of worse ways to spend a Tuesday than the day I've had today, raw fish included.

Three years a wife. Four years a widow.

It struck me this week that I've been widowed longer than I was married. That's a bitter pill to swallow, but swallow it I must. I will always wish things had worked out differently for me. And for poor T. Especially for T. But this is my lot and I have to suck it up. I've said it before but I'll say it again; I wish T could come back now. He's been gone for long enough. I've endured a lot. It would be so nice if he could reappear and we could pick up where we left off, which would admittedly take time given the person I now am, but it would also be the best thing in the world. I just know it. But it can never happen. I can never see T again. Sometimes that hits me hard too. Even now.

But I know he'd be proud of me and where I've got to. I'm in a good place. I'm happy at work (dare I say it, although they recently offered me a permanent contract which made me baulk a bit!). I'm loving my Pilates and recently went on a Pilates retreat to Majorca. Yes, on my own. I loved every second of it. I'm also trying to get my head around having a new kitchen fitted - I'm getting a bit fed up of going to visit friends in mansions/houses they've built/places they've done up while I live in the same surroundings I've lived in for the past nine years; same second hand sofas, same cheapest Ikea furniture. But I need to bite the bullet and make some changes. On my own. That bit sucks. But again, it's my lot. Bugger all anyone can do about it. I can wallow and moan and groan. Or I can get on with living, which is what I always try to do.

Speaking of which, another mantra of mine is to live in the moment and not waste valuable time and energy worrying about things that may never happen. I try really hard at this but it's not always easy. Here's an example: I wanted to book time off over Christmas but when I checked the holiday calendar at work I discovered that the world and his wife had already booked those days off. I suspected therefore that my holiday request would be refused. I agonised about having this discussion with work for weeks. Weeks. Then I plucked up the courage to put my holiday request in and it was approved. Just like that. Pah!

4

Here we are; four years on. Time passed so slowly in the beginning. I didn't know how I'd get to tomorrow, nevermind next week, and next year was beyond the realms of comprehension. But here we are at four. And the first one I'll spend in the home we shared.

This time of year will always be hard. All the difficult, 'four years ago today' memories (which, right now would probably have had T Egyptian dancing across the hall while I was trying to blowdry my hair. Not something he'd ever done before in my presence, but something that made me laugh. And it's so important that that last memory is a happy, crazy one.).

I still think of T multiple times every single day. And miss him. And love him. And wish with every single ounce of me that he was still here. I still sometimes think I've seen T at the train station, in the supermarket, on the street - it's weird and kind of hard to explain. It's like an instinct thing I guess; when you're so used to seeking that familiar face out of crowds, it becomes a habit that's hard to kick. It's like my eyes react before my brain has had the chance to correct them. Then the other day I caught myself wondering if we'd moved to NYC, as T was rooting (apologies for the use of that word, Antipodeans) for at one point, whether T might still be here today. Like Sliding Doors. Except I'll never know how that parallel life might have worked out. Which is probably just as well.

While I think of him daily, I rarely dream of T. Unfortunately. I'd like him to star in my dreams more often. When I do, it tends to always be along the same lines of him coming back from somewhere. As a slight aside, I've been watching the brilliant and compelling first series of The Returned on Channel 4, which finished last night. It's about people who come back from the dead, but in a very real way. (Well, as real as that can ever be, and it gets much less real as the series progresses, but they're tangible.) That made me wonder what it would be like if T came back. Which is just crazy thinking, but interesting too.

It hasn't happened quite yet, but one thing about The Returned is that the dead came back at the age they were when they died. Which made me think that I'll always have photos of a 33-year old man up in my house. Even when I'm 90. T will never age. Like that other movie, whose name escapes me... Oh yeah: Forever Young :-)

The suddenness of T's death will always be difficult for me to accept. No warning, no time to prepare. One day there we were, living a normal (very much in inverted commas) life, the next T is lying in a hospital bed on a life support machine. We spend one final and very precious night 'together' (again in inverted commas), then he's wheeled away to have his ventilator turned off. See, even writing that feels surreal. Back to that feeling I've described before of, 'that can't have actually happened to me'. I don't know how I could survive that happening to T. But the weird thing is, I did.

And so, four years on also means a time for me to reflect on where I am on my journey - 4AT. I feel more self-assured, more confident in many respects, definitely sweat less of the small stuff, tolerate less shit, am comfortable in my own company, spend more time and money on my appearance than ever before and both appreciate and really try to live life to my max. That's not to say I do crazy shit the whole time. Sometimes that means going to Pilates several times a week. Sometimes that means whipping up a mean poached egg brunch. Sometimes it means basking in the sun. I have an amazing lifestyle - one which I need to be more accepting and appreciative of. And I'm lucky enough to have amazingly supportive family and friends who are there for me come rain or shine and help to keep me on the straight and narrow.

4AT also sees me reading a novel in Italian. Granted I don't understand every word, but I understand enough to get the gist and keep me turning the pages. I'm super pleased with my progress in Italian - just need to keep it up now I'm not spending quite as much time there. Having said that, I'm off to Italy soon to see everyone, swim in the sea (CANNOT WAIT!!) and go to one of the food festivals - sagre - that we went to last year, where we're guaranteed to eat exceptionally well, get rather merry and dance the night away. (Chri always tells me I need to remember two words whenever I'm out drinking, in any language: non merci, no grazie, nein danke, no thanks, no gracias... He says when I touch the stars (I think that's his expression) I need to use those two words and maintain that happy point, not descend past it, as is my wont. This time, however, Massimo has arranged for us to stay in the village where the sagra is being held, so Chri tells me that this is the only time none of us have to remember the two words. I'll be packing the milk thistle!)

Seemingly small things are also significant when I look back on how far I've come in four years. I recently did a reading at one of my good school friend's weddings. Big deal. Except it is a big deal when I think back to how just going to a wedding on my own used to be a challenge in those early days. So this time, I not only went to a wedding quite happily without a date, but I tottered down the aisle in my stilettos and did a reading in front of 130 guests. Boom!

Of course, my life isn't always rosy and exciting. I have chores and mundanity the same as the next person and the lows this year have been challenging to say the least, but I'm trying super hard to live in the moment and enjoy life and the various curveballs it throws at you. I recently read a great little book that I'd highly recommend, called 'Man's Search for Meaning' by Viktor Frankl. I like this quote, written in the Preface by Gordon W Allport:

"... to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering. If there is a purpose in life at all, there must be a purpose in suffering and in dying. But no man can tell another what this purpose is. Each must find out for himself, and must accept the responsibility that his answer prescribes. If he succeeds he will grow in spite of all indignities."

That resonates with me at 4AT. Especially the growth bit.

RIP my gorgeous boy. I dedicate this post, and my life, to you.

And belatedly, part two...

After the hens' lunch we headed back to the farm and chilled out in the sunshine before a few of us set about filling jam jars with flowers. It was so nice getting to know close friends and family of the bride and groom and to be part of the preparations. It was also really good to be back on the farm with my NZ family again - I think I've said before I'm convinced Laura and I are related through our Scottish ancestors.

Being back in this place reminded me once again how much I've moved on in the past three years. After T's death I can remember being told that things would gradually improve with the passing of time. That things wouldn't always be so bleak, so colourless. That meant nothing at the time. Now I can see how true that is. It's imperceptible really, until you have something to measure it against. The me that arrived in NZ three years' ago was a broken, fragile, bewildered me - still reeling. Still grieving. Less a shadow of my former self; more a different person altogether. It felt good coming back. Remembering the past, acknowledging the journey I'm on, looking to the future with a happier, lighter heart.

One of my new friends, a super lovely friend of Laura's called Katie, and I stayed with some super lovely neighbours that night; an Irish lady called Margaret and her husband Chris. We were made to feel so incredibly welcome and at home in their home. Sharing a bed with Katie just a few short hours after meeting her helped cement our friendship. We woke up on the morning of the wedding to a slightly hazy day that held the promise of hot sun to come. After a cooked breakfast with our hosts, Katie and I headed over to the farm to lend a hand with the preparations. We hung pom-poms in the sheep shed, arranged flowers, set tables - whatever was required to help make things less stressful for the bride and groom. I felt the burden of responsibility when Laura asked me to do a walk around as if I were her - checking for an out of place fork, a missing glass, a cardboard box poking out from under a tablecloth. Laura was calm and serene, as I'd expected she would be.

After a quick fashion show for Katie, it was decided that my black jump-suit was too avant-garde for a Kiwi wedding (lol!) so I settled on one of my favourite black dresses. There was barely time to do my make up and hair, grabbing some pastry-less quiche and wine with Margaret, before it was time to head back over to the farm for the ceremony. By then the sun was out and the farm was awash with guests, all there to help Laura, Steve and Rose celebrate their special day. There was a palpable buzz in the air. I was so pleased I'd flown half-way around the world to be there to join in the celebrations.

The ceremony was beautiful. The bride and wedding party looked gorgeous. The service, conducted by the most lovely padre (who I drunkenly christened Pedro), was lovely. The setting and weather were perfect. It was very special and very unique. After the ceremony we stood in the sunshine, drinking champagne and eating delicious canapés, including the most delicious macaroons. Later on the guests meandered through the trees towards the marquee overlooking the fields. Katie and I took a short cut to be there to shower the bride and groom in confetti as they arrived. We perched on logs in the warm sunshine, drinking more champagne, talking about the day, getting to know other guests, admiring how lovely everything was. It was picture perfect - like something you'd see featured in a magazine.

Dinner was delicious - hog and lamb roast with wonderful fresh, homemade-style salads; my kinda food. The wine was good. Obviously; most wine in NZ is. The speeches made me cry. I cried for Laura's brother, James, who died five years ago (today, in fact). I cried for Laura's family. I cried for T and for me. And I cried because it was these two facts combined that meant I was even at Laura's wedding. Despite the geographical distance, Laura and I definitely became closer as a result of that.

The compulsory dancing began after dinner. And I got compulsorily drunk, as is my wont at weddings. I even karaoked (thankfully with the mic stand, not the mic), which is also compulsory for me at weddings, despite knowing full well I can't sing. Wouldn't be a wedding without it though! Later in the evening Laura's brother and I discovered a stash of leftover champagne. Which we drank out of whatever glass we had in our hand when we staggered to the esky, which was sometimes a pint glass. Oh well. That's what weddings are for. Angus reckons his hangover lasted three days as a result. And he's just young. I smoked celebratory cigars with Pedro the padre, a glowstick (used to light the path to the portaloo) around my neck. Then a male guest changed into his mankini, as he'd promised he would. Persuading him to wait until 10pm to do so was one of the better things I did that night. Not sure all the guests would have approved of him doing so before the watershed, although I think both the bride and groom's mothers were pretty happy, even requesting a photo of the three of them together. All in all, it was a pretty awesome day. I was so happy to be part of it.

The next day I was meant to head back to Laura's house ready to catch a flight to Melbourne with Janelle. Instead I called Qantas at 5.30am on the Monday morning to change my flight so I could stay on in NZ for a couple of extra days. Then called them again a couple of days later and changed my flight again. Went on a roadtrip up the coast to Hawke's Bay, Napier and Gisborne. Learnt how to corner on the twisty NZ roads. Camped. Swam in the sea. Ate fish and chips on the beach, washed down by delicious Esk Valley wine. Ate Sunday lunch at a winery, under the shade of the olive trees, a seven-piece ukulele band playing. Got my nose pierced. It was all pretty amazing. Liberating, refreshing and fun. Something out of the ordinary. Totally unexpected. It felt like I was really and truly living in the moment. Finally! It also meant I got to hang out more with Laura and Rose. I sorted out a couple of her kitchen cupboards, got to know Rose a bit better. Helped them do a supermarket shop. Put the world to rights. It was all good.

Eventually, after 13 instead of 5 days in NZ, it was time for me to say my goodbyes and head to Australia. Again, it was a bit of a landmark moment being back in Melbourne. Back to the flat I'd helped Janelle move into three years ago. Walking the Tan every day. Having lunch beside the sea. The familiarity of Flinders Street station. Meeting up with Ben, who Tim and I met in Peru over 10 years ago, for a couple of indulgent sunny afternoon wines. Catching up over a delicious Mexican meal with my school friend, Chris, and his now wife, Genevieve. Everything was the same as it had been three years previous. But so very different. I think the same is true of Janelle too. And that makes me happy. We've both come a long way in three years. All for the better.

From Melbourne it was on to Singapore for what turned out to be a drunken haze of a weekend with Pam and Mick. There was champagne on Pam's terrace to celebrate the birth of her nephew. Frozen margaritas and a Mexican meal to celebrate her friend's birthday on Arab Street. Shisha and buckets of beer at a street cafe one balmy evening. More drinks with a very old family friend - I was bridesmaid at his sister's wedding when I was 9. He just happened to be in Singapore on business that weekend; it's a small world. A mani pedi. Of course. A rugby game - cheering Mick on as he played in the sweltering Singaporean heat. How, I don't know. Then a house party with very drunken rugby boys and WAGs and on to Club Street. A night that somehow involved a fight with an overly agressive bouncer (not me, I hasten to add), the police being called and me telling a very drunken boy about T as the only way to connect with him in his drunken fury. Then the aftermath. Waking up to Babybel wrappers and hangovers. Struggling through lunch in China Town. An afternoon of back-to-back dvds (and some sleeping during the very long, not overly riveting Lincoln) and McDonald's home delivery. I'd expect nothing less from a weekend with Pam!

On Monday I managed 100 lengths in the pool before meeting Pam after work and heading, in a torrential downpour, to a hawker centre to meet Mick for dinner. Then it was time for me to get a taxi back to the airport, yet another amazing trip to the southern hemisphere drawing to a close.

Coming back to the flat was hard. Partly because I'd just stepped off a long-haul overnight flight. Partly because the tenants had left the place in a mess. Partly because I was coming home after 8 amazing months away. Partly because it felt like going back in time, back to a previous life that didn't feel connected to my present life. Partly because it was winter and cold and grey and depressing. I literally burst into tears as I walked through the door. Didn't want to be there. At all.

Since then I've settled back into life in my flat. It's nice to have access to more than one suitcase's worth of stuff. It's nice to have a base and not feel like I'm constantly relying on generous friends' hospitality. Nice to be sleeping in the same bed for more than a few nights in a row. My bed. I've started, slowly, to clear shit out the loft. Shit that I've been hoarding for far too long. Two-people's worth of shit. It's not always easy, but it's necessary. I'm also working again. That bit's the easy bit. It's good having some routine, earning some money, having a distraction and some purpose. I'm doing pilates at least twice a week and absolutely love it. I'm going to give Bikram yoga a try too. I've discovered a nice independent coffee shop in my hood. Like hanging out there. I've bumped into a friend at the station after work and gone for an impromptu G&T. I've had Graeme to stay, and my Italian friend Luisella. I've caught up with London-based friends. People who always welcome me back into their lives with open arms, regardless of how long I've been away. That all helps.

A New Zealand wedding - part one

Well, I survived the long flights to get here, stopping for a couple of hours each in Singapore and Sydney. Sleeping tablets and Stugeron helped. A lot. Flights all went smoothly. Food was good. Film choice was disappointing (although I did watch a beautiful French film called The Intouchables that I'd highly recommend). Can't remember the company I had on two of the flights, which I guess is a good sign in some ways but on one flight I spoke a lot of Italian to a young Belgian girl who is more in love with Italy than me. Headphones became compulsory...

Coming into land at Wellington was actually quite emotional. I could have cried but didn't. I was in such a different place when I came here last. And I'm so proud to be in the place I am now. It was so nice seeing this beautiful country again from the air. And being in summer again. I was happy. After eventually clearing customs and immigration, I went straight to the ATM to get some dollars. Card didn't work. Tried another. Neither did that. Worked out that I had just under $20 to my name so headed out of the terminal to see if that would get me to remotely where I needed to be. Fortunately the shuttle man took pity on me and although I didn't have the full fare he let me hop on anyway. Love the Kiwis! He dropped me at my hotel (West Plaza on Wakefield Street for future reference - I have found that my blog has become a good way to keep track of travel tips) and I checked in, taking a much-needed shower. Resisting the urge to sleep, I made a call to my bank to get my card released. Despite my prolific travelling, I made the classic schoolgirl error of not telling my bank I'd be away in advance. The guy on the phone said, yes madam, unusual activity was noticed on your account. Your card has been used in three countries in 24-hours. Yes dude. Tell me about it! I then had a stroll along the waterfront, reminiscing about the last time I was here and soaking up the deliciously warm sunshine.

I took myself off to Floriditas on Cuba Street for dinner. It's a restaurant Laura took me to last time I was here and I remembered it being good. It didn't disappoint. I managed a main and a glass of red before I started to feel very sleepy and called it a night. I had a really good night's sleep all things considered although I woke up feeling very confused. I accepted the fact I was in a hotel room and knew that some friends were arriving that day but couldn't think where in the world I could be. It took me a while to piece it together - I'd just spent a day on three planes and I was back in NZ for lovely friend Laura's wedding. And my lovely friend Janelle was arriving from Melbourne later that day. I lay in bed feeling very happy indeed.

I passed the time in Wellington until Janelle and her friend Steph arrived to pick me up and we drove about 50 minutes north to Raumati, where Laura and Steve live. They had already left for Laura's parents' farm, where the wedding was going to be held so we had the place to ourselves. We treated ourselves to a coffee. Then a sharing platter and some wine. Then I had a swim. In the sea!!!! It was so amazing. Not necessarily the hottest nor deepest sea I've ever swam in but heaven to be swimming in any sea in February. Then we shared fish and chips and a bottle of wine on the seashore, watching the sun set over the south island in the distance. It was great!

On Friday we drove into the Manawatu to a small town called Feilding and had a small hen's lunch with Laura and her friends and female relatives. It was so good to see Laura again, and to meet her beautiful daughter Rose. One thing I've noticed about social media and the ultra-connected world we now live in, is that when you meet up with overseas friends you don't need to spend much time on the catching up bit as you're already caught up. You can literally pick up where you left off. It definitely didn't feel like three years had passed since I'd seen the girls. I guess that's the thing about good friends too. Time and distance don't matter quite so much.

Gotta go now. Will do the wedding write up soon!

The birds

The other day I had a stroll along the promenade at Nice just as the sun was setting. It was spectacular; I think sometimes winter sunsets are more impressive than summer sunsets. The evening skies recently have been a blaze of colour - the sun a fierce red fireball drifting either into the sea or behind a mountain. Once the sun had disappeared I continued my stroll but soon became completely and utterly transfixed by the sight of the Nice starlings flocking before going in to roost.

Of course I've seen this before - it happened daily in Perpignan - but it never fails to amaze me. Sat on a cold metal seat on the promenade I was completely mesmorised, unaware of my surroundings, lost in the incredible movements and patterns these birds were making. It was like watching an art installation, a live performance that was finely choreographed and breathtaking. Sometimes a breakaway group would form, and I was treated to not one but two displays. They would then regroup seamlessly, without collision and were as one again. Sometimes the sky was awash with swirling, hypnotic black. Sometimes the birds disappeared momentarily from sight as they turned on the wing, coming back into sight at speed, forming heart, cone, and kidney shapes in the evening sky.

I actually felt slightly exhausted at the end of it. Like the feeling you get when you come out of a particular intense theatre production. I resisted the urge to applaud, but inside I was giving these birds a standing ovation. Their perfomance made my day.

Hole yet whole

I brought my iPod into the studio recently so we've been listening to T's music on a daily basis for the past few weeks. Today I'm sat listening to JJ Cale and it's making me miss T. How I wish I could see him again. Sometimes, even three years on, I still can't believe he's gone. The injustice of it all hits me hard today. He was a good person; kind, loving, wise, thoughtful. He introduced me to new things. He challenged me. He loved me and he shared his life with me. I was lucky, I know that. He makes me whole – even now.

Although I think of T every single day, and assume (and hope) I always will, there's not normally pain associated with those thoughts. Now, on the occasions when I do feel pain, it's of the dull aching variety. Like a painkiller wearing off; that niggling feeling of discord in the periphery of your being. But the happiness in my life right now helps negates this pain. Doesn't mean I don't miss him though. 

Foggy?

Last weekend someone told me about a place they'd been to in New Zealand from where it's said souls leave the earth. It's meant to be beautiful but, he said, when he was there it was really foggy so he couldn't see much. One of my friends said maybe it wasn't fog, but the sheer number of souls leaving earth that day. I like that.

Feeling hot hot hot

My mate Luke is amazing. He's like my own personal Gok. On Saturday night I walked into a posh party with my head held high, brimming with confidence and happy for once with how I looked. I didn't feel behind the fashion times, but equally I felt like me; not like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't. I wasn't wearing my usual skinny black jeans and heels. I was, in fact, wearing a whole new outfit that was bought on a budget. I think I looked good. And that's certainly what people told me. But it was all thanks to Luke. 

I treated myself to a buttock-skimming playsuit, bought under Luke's guidance. It could have been a bit too much were it not for the fact that it had a high neckline and long sleeves so, although it was leggy, there was no flesh exposed up top! The French plait in the front of my hair that Luke had planned was rejected in favour of hair down, so instead he patiently straightened my hair and styled the front for me. I then did my make-up. Emerging from the bathroom, Luke said he thought I'd gone in to do my eye make-up. I told him I had done it but he wasn't happy and requested access to my make up bag. I was a doubting Thomas; it's one thing letting a boy loose on your outfit and hair, but what's a boy to know about make up? But he did me proud. The result, after much bickering, was smoky eyes and perfect cupid's bow lips. I had to eat my words. He's good that boy. Damn good. If anyone would like a make-over, hair tips, fashion advice, I'd thoroughly recommend Luke. In fact, I think he's wasted in his day job. Wasted. 

The party was great fun, with an unexpected but very welcome free bar and lots of familiar faces but not enough time spent with the birthday boy – that's always the way. But getting ready was more fun. Luke got both me and his flatmate dressed and ready to go. Then he, bless him, made about four outfit changes himself before he was finally happy with how he looked. All this, accompanied by gin, pizza, tequila and Taylor Swift. It was like nothing I've ever experienced before, and I loved it. 

Staying over with the boys last night, after a 3am salt-beef bagel pit-stop on Brick Lane, just prolonged the fun. Luke had gone to the trouble of lighting a scented candle in his room to make it smell nice and it was the tidiest I've ever seen it. It makes you feel good when you know people have done something just for you. It felt like we fell asleep laughing and woke up laughing. The following morning we were served tea in bed, and watched last night's X-Factor before Luke headed to the cinema and I joined three lovely boys for a delicious homemade brunch of cream cheese and Parma ham bagels with poached eggs. I felt thoroughly spoilt and so at home in Raul and Luke's lovely home. 

Once again, I feel so lucky to have such good friends in my life. I can't imagine what it would be like without people like this to look out for me and help make me feel better about things. I do sometimes wish I could do something to prove how grateful I am to my friends and family – words just seem so inadequate, but equally you can't put a monetary value on gratitude. I hope they know that I'll be forever indebted to them and hope that I can somehow return the love.  

Dream a little dream

It doesn't happen often. In fact I can count one one hand how many times it's happened in the past three years, but last night I dreamt of T. I woke up this morning feeling like I'd seen him. Which made me feel happy. I can vividly remember gazing lovingly at him while he was on the phone to his sister, helping her with a problem she was having with her broadband. We weren't living together – I was just visiting – and we were happy. I remember thinking that I wished he'd hurry up on the phone because we had so much to catch up on, it felt like we hadn't seen each other for oh, maybe three years. I wish my dream would come true. 

Home is where you keep your slipper socks

Somehow I've almost completed three and a half weeks of my seven-week contract here in London. I'm not quite sure where that time has gone but gone it has. Being back has had its pros and cons. 

The word that summed up my first week wasn't 'work' or 'tired' as I expected it to be, but 'cold'. I was cold on my commute, shivering on the platform at 7.30 every morning. I was cold at my desk – partly due to my pregnant colleague having the window open to help with her hot flushes. I was cold in bed, waking up in the middle of the night to put socks and a hoodie on. Fortunately last week was a bit better weather-wise and I saw the sunshine again, which helped, but I definitely need to wear more clothes now. My Geordie blood clearly isn't as thick as it once was. My generous host gave me lifts to and from the station every day to help make the long commute that bit more bearable, which it definitely did. And I was well fed and watered and generally made to feel welcome, despite my summer and winter wardrobes – that were spilling out of various cases and bags after a rushed visit to my flat – taking up every inch of floor space in the spare room.

Last weekend, having stored the random bin bag full of sheets and towels that I managed to get out of my loft by mistake, as well as the contents of my summer wardrobe, in the spare room cupboard of amazing friends, I continued on my merry way to stay with more lovely friends in Peckham. We climbed to the top of Hilly Fields – where T and I used to spend our summer days when we lived in St Johns: it was strange being back there – and watched the Blackheath fireworks. They were stunning, if a tad silent at the distance we were watching them from. Then we went to a posh chippy and had eat-in fish and chips and some BYO wine. My friends have one of my ideal homes and a new dog, so I was happy.

Week two can be summed up by the word 'love'. I loved everything about it! Living in central London was amazing, although I didn't really take full advantage of living so centrally because I was just so eager to get home to my lovely flatmate every evening. It's the first time I've really felt that since T died and it felt great. It definitely makes it easier to leave work on time when you've got someone waiting for you at home. I was feeling a bit down about life in general when I arrived at Russell Square, but after a few short hours in the company of my temporary flatmate I was right as rain again. Cups of tea and slices of cake were waiting on the table for me when I got home from work every evening. We spent evenings on the sofa, laughing until our stomachs hurt and I'd cried off all my mascara. We made pizzas, ate burgers and watched films snuggled up under our throws – taking it in turns to fall asleep and miss the ending. We had play fights and took the dog for urban walks. I was Gok-ed. And we had one very very messy but amazing night out that ended in a rickshaw ride and a visit to 24-hour Tesco to stock up on scotch eggs and cocktail sausages. 

Today I'm on the move again. I'm spending a couple of nights with good friends before moving into more permanent accommodation (one month!) on Thursday. One benefit of this nomadic lifestyle is that I get to spend proper QT with my friends; it's so much better than a quick Pizza Express in town on a school night. And everyone is so kind! I'm so incredibly touched by that. My hosts have all been wonderful – generous, welcoming, tolerant and fun to be around. That has made a massive difference to the scale of my Italy come-down. And people keep checking in to find out if I'm sorted for a bed. People with small children. People with full-time jobs and partners. People further afield. It really is incredible. I'm a lucky girl.

Get by with a little help from my friends

I'm on the road again. After four glorious months in the south, the time has come for me to head back up north and yesterday I made the long drive from Nice to the outskirts of Paris. I have to admit that I left with a heavy heart. A heart that tells me to stay down there where the quality of life is good and the weather is several degrees warmer, in a country that I've fallen in love with and a language I'm finally beginning to get to grips with. But a heart that also tells me I'll be back. I've had another amazing summer. I've made new friends, seen new places, done new things. I've learnt valuable life lessons, I've grown as a person and I'm happy.  

On Monday I start a new contract in London. At this moment in time it's only for seven weeks so I'm living very much in the short term. I'm also homeless in London as my flat is rented out until Christmas, a week after my contract finishes – typical! But, maybe for the first time in my life, all of that uncertainty is fine by me. I think I've surprised even the non-planning Italians with my laid-back approach to this new chapter of my life. I've certainly surprised myself – it's very out of character for a control-freak like me. 

The thing that makes it easier is that I have very generous friends and family. I know that I will never be truly homeless. Beds have been offered to me by friends with children; parents offering to go in with their children so I can have their room. It's incredibly touching and I'm very grateful. Friends in the UK, Italy, France, and today in Australia, have told me their home is my home. In some cases their home has been my home in recent weeks or will be in the coming weeks. And maybe that's why I'm not phased by the impending uncertainty. Because I'm lucky enough to have a plethora of people looking out for and after me. Thank you!

The more I see of Italy, the more I love

Maybe I shouldn't visit any more of this country because the more places I visit, the deeper my love for this country becomes. It's well and truly in my blood now; I've definitely passed the point of no return, and I love it!

Bologna is an amazing city. It's vibrant and buzzy and full to the brim of young, beautiful, achingly trendy students. It's down-to-earth and infectious and interesting. It's full of culture and history and stunning, varied architecture. And people go everywhere by bike – it's lovely! I was advised against going to Florence to study Italian for two weeks because it's so full of tourists; more like a living museum than a real town. Bologna is a real town. It's Glasgow, not Edinburgh. Maybe it has something of Newcastle about it too. As is often the case, Lonely Planet hit the nail on the head with their description of Bologna, "If you've ever puzzled over how to combine haughty elegance with down-to-earth urban grit, come to Emilia-Romagna's fat, red, learned city where suave opera-goers waltz out of regal theatres into graffiti-embellished piazzas full of boozing students. Sometimes stylish, often scruffy, Bologna is a place of many monikers." I feel right at home here. It's somewhere I think I could live and be happy which isn't to say that's what I'm going to do, but I don't always feel that connection with places.

The school where I'm studying is great. It's very well managed and the teachers, on the whole, are good. We study from 9:30-11:30 when everyone – teachers and students from the various classes – heads to a nearby cafe for a coffee break. You sit in your group, with your teacher, and you all speak Italian. It's a good discipline because you quickly get into the habit of speaking Italian with your classmates socially, which is sometimes strange when they're English too, but it means you're maximising the time you spend speaking the language. Then we go back to school and have a conversation class until 13:45. I'm making good progress too. On day two I was told to go up a level in my conversation, which I did, but unfortunately the teacher wasn't great so I've gone back to my original class. I think I learn more there anyway, just because of the group dynamic. The school has a DVD library so I've watched a couple of films in Italian in the evenings, and they also organise four social events per week, which is another good way to maximise the Italian you speak, meet other students and learn more about the Italian/Bolognese culture.

On Tuesday afternoon one of the tutors took three of us on a guided tour of the music museum here. I wasn't that interested in the museum itself (shame on me, I know), but it was good to have another couple of hours of Italian immersion and the building where the museum was housed was worth seeing. Then on Wednesday afternoon a group of us went for a boozy cookery lesson at the house of the chef, a lovely lady called Patrizia. We made bruschetta, polenta with ragù (which is traditionally made with white wine and pork belly and is never ever served with spaghetti – spaghetti bolognese only exists outside of Italy!), pork steaks cooked with herbs and garlic then wrapped in prosciutto and served on a bed of baby leaves and parmesan, and finally ice-cream with fruit and a balsamic vinegar reduction. And the obligatory coffee, dark chocolate and a bottle of limoncello (to help the digestion you understand). Going out afterwards to help celebrate someone's birthday was a bad bad bad idea but was fun at the time.

Fortunately, Thursday was a public holiday to celebrate the patron saint of Bologna, San Petronio. I gave thanks to him that day, I can tell you! I couldn't have managed school but did somehow manage a trip to the modern art museum that I can see from my window, then into town to see what was going on there. There were various religious and cultural things happening and they closed the roads to cars so there were lots of people just sauntering round the city. In the evening I met up with a couple of classmates and went to see an amazing fireworks display in Piazza Maggiore. Then yesterday afternoon a group of us headed off into the beautiful Emilia-Romagna countryside to visit a dairy where they make parmesan cheese. It was really interesting to learn more about how the cheese is made, and why it costs so much.

This particular dairy make between 15 and 20 cheeses per day, between three people. The cheeses are then left to stand before being put in a salt-water bath. They are finally left to ripen and mature, de-moulded every week or so. Then the people that determine whether the cheese is up to the high standards required by the EU come round with a little hammer and test every single cheese to decide if it's up to scratch. The sound tells you whether the cheese is good or not. It was fascinating and great for our Italian too. Then afterwards they arranged a tasting (three different parmesans, ricotta, salami, prosciutto, bread, wine, water...) so we left feeling well and truly replete. The countryside was stunning too – lots of lovely rolling hills and green valleys. It was nice to see a little bit more of the region.Yesterday there was another birthday so after a little nap we met up in town for a few beers. It was a good night and nice to have people to socialise with. 

Today I visited Parma and Modena. Both are beautiful towns with fabulous architecture but I much preferred Modena. Parma was like a ghost-town and is so pristine it was like being on a film set. I found it a bit soul-less. But I did manage to eat Parma ham in Parma, which was one of my goals, and it was delicious. I washed it down with a glass of Lambrusco and followed it with tortelli alla zucca (pumpkin). I didn't enjoy being in a restaurant on my own much, especially because the couple next to me were having a bit of a domestic, and I really don't think food tastes as good when you're not sharing it with anyone, but that's just the way it goes. Modena was lovely; a thriving, energetic little city that felt more real than Parma and, like Bologna, was full of people on bikes. It's hard to imagine what it must have been like for the people of Modena this summer with the devastating earthquake and subsequent tremors they experienced. I know at least one person who slept in his car every night for a long period of time because he was just too scared to sleep at home. I didn't see any obvious signs of damage, although I did notice that a lot of buildings were under scaffolding, including the cathedral. I ended my day with a lovely ice-cream, possibly the best ever, fior di latte and toasted almond, then a quiet night at home. 

This is what life is all about

I'm sat cross-legged on my bed, cup of tea in hand, the window open, looking out over the primrose yellow of the modern art museum building contrasted against the blue of the sky. It's definitely not the blue of a summer sky, but it's clear blue sky all the same. I've been flicking through my Lonely Planet book trying to decide whether to go to Parma, Modena, Florence or Siena today and I think I've settled on Parma. Right at this second, and despite being alone, I am 100% happy and that to me is what life is all about.

Yes, be envious and jealous of me; I'd get why you would be. But never ever lose sight of the fact that I went to hell and back to get to where I am today. Something that when I'm feeling happy I sometimes have to remind myself of too. But acknowledge too that I've made conscious decisions and certain sacrifices to be where I am today. And that is something we all have the power to do. If you don't like something; change it. It may not always be simple but at least try. Today is all we have. Really. I can't remember if I've quoted this before but I once read somewhere that every day you should be able to say, today is a good day to die. Easier said than done? Quite possibly. But why let that stop you from trying?

Until tomorrow, I'll just keep moving on

Well, here I am in Bologna. Listening to the rain come down outside. It's been pouring since I arrived but it hasn't dampened my spirits. I'm on the road again, and that makes me happy in my heart.

Last Saturday I arrived back in Nice after a lovely visit to my family in the UK. I loved loved loved being back in the UK, and in the North East in particular. The weather was cold (very – I had to have my winter duvet on, the fire on every night and the central heating cranked up) but fortunately most days were bright and sunny, which made a difference. It was amazing spending some quality time with my family, who I really miss, and doing some bonding with my little nephew. I loved seeing the always-stunning Northumbrian countryside and the paddling in the (freezing cold) North Sea. Newcastle's bridges by night took my breath away; I couldn't stop taking photos. It was like seeing the region through new eyes. And it was great! I loved the shops. I'm not ordinarily a shopper, but oh my god did I love the shops. Just regular shops like Boots. And I bought four pairs of shoes. Yes, four. I even loved English television. Not something I watch a great deal of when I'm in the UK, but it was such a treat watching Celebrity Masterchef every night. (Sadly I didn't make it to Waitrose, but I really really miss Waitrose. Sad but very true.) Interestingly, none of the above, bar my family of course, bother me when I'm not in the UK, but being back made me appreciate them all the more.

But all too soon it was time to leave and I was headed back to Nice. Chri met me at the airport and when we got back to his, I was delighted to find Eve and Gianluca there waiting to welcome me back. We then spent Sunday helping Eve's dad pick the last of his grapes. As I drink his wine every time I'm at his house, it only seemed fair to help him harvest this year's grapes so I can justify drinking next year's batch. When I'd dropped my parents off at the Newcastle Airport on Saturday morning it was 3 degrees (admittedly it was 6.30am but even so, it was only 9 degrees at 10am) so I was delighted that Sunday dawned warm (up to 27: heaven!) and sunny. After picking the grapes (to the strains of the drunken neighbouring vine-owner singing old Italian songs at the top of his voice, bare-chested with a crown of vine leaves on his head – like something out a film), we sat down to a delicious BBQ then roasted some chestnuts. It was lovely but once again I ate far too much.

Last week I stayed with Chri all week. I haven't seen that much of him this summer so it was really nice  spending some quality time together. He taught me a typical Genovese card game, that we've played most nights and I've still not won, but give it time... And one night a couple of friends came round to watch the Genoa game so I made a delicious curry for everyone; the first proper cooking I've done in a long time. I enjoyed it. Another night I took advantage of a free guest pass to join Chri at the gym. Not only did I complete a 45-minute run without any knee pain (happy face), but I got straight off the treadmill onto the bike and did a 45-minute spin class. I loved that too, surprisingly! T went spinning every day. Now I understand why. I like it when that happens.

Friday night and Saturday I spent with Eve, then last night I popped up to Matteo's and had dinner with him and his lovely girlfriend, Luisella. She is one of my new gurus (having been through her own fair share of shit) and she totally gets me. It's nice having a guru in the same country as me – doesn't happen that often. The weather was crap yesterday, really autumnal, so I was delighted to find myself sunbathing in my bikini on the beach this afternoon. The waves were too big to swim (and the water was possibly a tad on the cool side, but let's blame the waves), but I did have to have a shower to cool off. Lovely!

Then I took myself off to Bologna. I'm doing an intensive Italian course for the next two weeks – 4 hours per day – and I'm super excited. (I had to change trains at Milan and am now totally in love with Milano Centrale station. It is stunning architecturally, but it was also nice being in a big, buzzy station. It reminded me of Central Station in NYC, or of St Pancras. It's also moved Milan up my hit list, especially when I saw that BT and Barclays both have offices there...). Anyway, I'm super excited to be learning; stimulating those brain cells a bit. The fact I'm going to be learning Italian is even better. I'm also happy to be in Bologna – even if it is wet. It's meant to be an amazing city; a real Italian city, full of real Italian people, not tourists (bloody tourists, they get everywhere!). And the Bolognese are meant to be a friendly lot. The architecture is supposedly pretty impressive too. I'm staying within spitting distance of the modern art museum that has a great looking bar/restaurant that I plan to hang out in. And the food (and red wine) in this part of the world is rumoured to be amazing. So I reckon I might like it here.

I find experiences like this so liberating. They make me excited and happy and challenged and free.

The End. For tonight. Need to be bright eyed and bushy tailed for my first day of school tomorrow. Good night.

Time flies when you're having fun

Last summer I spent one and a half months living on my own in a half-empty apartment, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, my social life dictated by the infrequent trains that served my local station. That time passed so slowly; it felt like an eternity. In contrast, this summer has flown by. I can't believe that I've been here for two months and autumn is already on the horizon.

I've been very happy this summer. I've loved my living arrangements and will be very sad to pack my bags this week and return to my nomadic life. It's been lovely being part of a family while also having my own personal space. I enjoy eating with other people and hearing the sounds of their daily life going on around me. It makes me feel less alone. It's also been amazing eating their home-grown produce every day – tomatoes, courgettes, courgette flowers, pears, aubergines, lettuce; it all tastes so much better fresh from the ground/tree. It's made a big difference not being reliant on my friends for accommodation, transport and entertainment. I feel more independent. I've found my feet, made new friends, I love cruising up and down the Ligurian coast in my little English car.

It's strange to think that last summer I arrived knowing only Chri and up until then I hadn't seen him for 14 years! Now, thanks to him, I have a big circle of friends. There's Evelyn, a girlfriend like I've never had before, and who I haven't yet known for one year, who likes nothing more than doing girly things together. On Friday we stayed at home and watched hair-up videos on YouTube in preparation for the wedding I'm going to in Ibiza next week. (I think we've cracked a style that should work, although I could do with flying Eve out with me to recreate it for the big day because I'm not sure it'll be quite so easy on my own!). I have open access to her wardrobe and beauty products and she's constantly telling me not to wear all black, to experiment more with my make-up, to buy a new, more revealing bikini, etc etc. On Sunday night we went to her parents for dinner (melon and proscuitto, Ligurian style rabbit then ice-cream cake, all washed down with the red wine her father produces); they were so welcoming and hospitable and told me that their door is always open for me.

Then there's Matteo, who shares my love of travelling and experiencing new cultures. He's also a runner and, unlike Eve, has been to visit me in London so has experienced and understands my English life a bit. I love Matte's house, an old building in the heart of the village – maybe another of my havens. His parents have also opened the doors of their home wide to me and I really appreciated their hospitality too. Matteo has, perhaps more than anyone else, taught me to try and live more in the moment; not to plannify as we call it! And I've formed a special bond with his girlfriend, who I've only met a handful of times. She speaks good English and during a short car journey together we inexplicably did some mutual emotional story sharing. She has been through her own share of shit and is therefore perhaps the only person in my group of friends here who can really understand something of my experience. That's important to me.

Davide, an architect who also plays in a Blues band, is a one-off and never fails to make us all laugh. He should be on the stage really, he's quite the drama queen but all in the name of comedy. He plays his plastic fork like a guitar while queuing at the bar; he splashes you repeatedly with water while you're having a serious conversation about religion in the sea, maintaining a straight face for the duration; he bursts into song at random moments; he can make his bottom lip tremble dramatically when he pretends you've hurt him; he loves Queen. He is a proper gent, you can have interesting conversations with him and he's a very patient Italian teacher.

Gianluca is also a one-off, but in a completely different way to Davide. His humour is more base and he's inexplicably quite down on Italy generally. He is training to be a lawyer so lives at home with his parents. His mother seems to spend every waking moment cooking and we've spent many an evening at the beach, eating her torta verde and drinking a chilled bottle of white wine that Gianluca has brought along with him. He lives in the hills and has introduced us to a hidden beach on the Roya river that is amazing for swimming in the cool water. He also has his finger on the pulse regarding the dates and locations of all the village festivals, which is always good to know.

Andrea (a boy, the equivalent of Andrew in English), is an accountant. But he's not dull. He loves art and reading and the theatre, which I thoroughly approve of. It's nice to find a man to share those things with. He has been my personal guide to the area this summer and knows all the best places to go. We've been to an open-air cinema in a garden with the mountains as a back-drop. We've been to an open-air theatre in a village in the hills to see a Moliere play. We've been to nice restaurants and nice beaches away from the main drag of private beach clubs, and we've been to the best gelateria (or icecreameria as we christened it) in the whole of Liguria (his claim, not mine) and sampled their pine nut ice cream. Last night, on his recommendation, I took myself off to a little village down the coast for a wander on my lonesome. I looked around the church, had an Aperol spritz in the piazza while the sun set then wandered the little alleyways until I stumbled across a small photography exhibition. I ended up chatting to the photographer for an hour or so and loved every minute of it!

And, speaking of friends, Barbara just called me. She's from this area but now lives in Milan and she's here on holiday this week. She's off to Juan-les-Pins tomorrow with another friend who I've met once before and they wondered if I'd like to join them. Perfect timing as I'm off to Nice this afternoon because Chri, Eve and I are going to the Madonna concert there this evening!

Anyway, hopefully that gives you a flavour of some of the people I've met. It's not always easy to express ourselves with the respective language barriers, but somehow we find a way and all get on well. Nobody treats me like an outsider because I'm English. People are patient and inclusive and kind. In fact, despite the language barrier and the cultural differences, I feel like one of them. I don't see myself as different just because I'm from a different country. I guess friends are friends, whichever country they are from.

On Sunday I'm off to Ibiza for a couple of weeks. T's step-sister is getting married so I'm super excited about that. It will be so nice to see T's family again and to catch up on all their news. Eve, Massimo and Elvira are joining me for the second week. It's looking unlikely that Chri will be there, which I'm not very happy about, but wait and see. Then I'm back here for six days before heading back to the NE to see my precious family. The Great North Run is looking unlikely this year, due to a persistent knee injury, but I'm really looking forward to being back in the NE and seeing everyone again. And who knows what'll happen after that. As Matte has taught me, I'm trying not to worry about that too much right now so as to make the most of today, but I'm not good at dealing with uncertainty. My heart tells me to stay here where the quality of life is good and I've got a lot of single friends. My head tells me I need some stimulation and a 'proper job'. Any advice appreciated!

Riding pillion

Two boys in one week have told me I'm a great pillion. Apparently female passengers are normally very rigid and lean the wrong way into and out of corners, making it more difficult for the driver to control the bike. They were both surprised when I told them that last summer was my first real time on the back of a bike.

I've been thinking about this and it's strange really. In the past, I was so scared of riding pillion; in fact I could count the number of times I'd been on the back of a bike on half a hand. Then my husband is killed in a motorcycle accident. These two things should mean I'm even more frightened of bikes, but instead I've developed a new love for them. Well, for scooters really. I think the reason I'm a good pillion is because I don't think about it. I'm so relaxed when I'm on the back of a scooter, watching the world rush by, feeling the wind against my skin, breathing in the fragrant Mediterranean air, sharing observations with the driver. I move as one with the bike. I don't think about corners and which way I should be leaning. It's so liberating, I love it.

I've said before that when T died I like to think that a part of him fused with me so that we're living one life between the two of us. If this is true – and it's unlikely, I know, but just humour me – then I think I've inherited my love of riding pillion from him. And I like that. I like that through T's death I've found pleasure in new things, things that would have previously been totally off-limits to me.

On the news front, it's been another great week. Last Friday I went to an open-air theatre in a small village to see Moliere's Tarfuffe. It was magical. Then on Saturday a big group of us went to a village festival in a small village in the hills. We ate well, drank, danced and generally had fun. Sunday was spent dozing on the beach – cooling off in the sea when it got too hot.

The kids are on holiday for a couple of weeks so I'm a free agent now, so my days this week have mostly been spent at the beach. I've done lots of swimming and it's amazing! Yesterday I was in the sea by 9.15am and had my last swim around 8.15pm. I love my life here! On Wednesday evening we went to a lovely little village in the hills called Apricale. When I arrived there I told my friends that I thought I'd lived there in a past life. I felt instantly at home. We saw an amazing theatrical performance where you were taken around the village in groups to watch various performers tell their story in different locations. I didn't understand much of the Italian but it was a great experience. Then last night I met four friends on the beach when they finished work and we shared a bottle of wine, ate torta verde and arancini made by one of the mums, and had a swim. Tonight we're off to another village festival that promises to be a good night, then probably out in Monaco tomorrow night. On Sunday night I'm hoping to go somewhere dark to watch the meteor showers that occur at this time of year and that will forever remind me of the meteor showers we saw when T died. Life is good.