Sometimes; just sometimes; Kidderminster seems like the ends of the earth [Debenhams or no Debenhams] – but then I’m usually hidden away in the shed with a bottle of chardonnay. Soon I will pitch my tent outside the beloved shed and invite any other unfortunates to my very own festival [“In Vino Veritas”?] It is a truth universally acknowledged that living with ones parents at the age of 27 and a half is not conducive to sanity. So much for that private education and Cambridge degree; so much for the unfinished novel. I am rapidly turning into Kidderminster’s answer to Bridget Jones. Last week the suction underwear I’d removed during lunch for fear it [or I] would explode, fell from my handbag the next day when paying for petrol. I hereby apologise to the poor cashier in Sainsburys, who nearly had my granny pants on his lap, as I proceeded to enter the wrong pin number [twice]. Then I went to Birmingham to see the sparkly gold Anglo-Saxon treasure, and never saw it because the queue was too long and a combination of ill-advised stilettoes and the need for vino, meant I ended up in Brindly Place instead [shush]. I even registered on some ghastly internet dating site – such is the need to escape into the arms of my Mr Darcy; my Mr Big [pilots and surgeons always welcome]. If there are any suitables in the vicinity, please let me know.

Regression is inevitable. I find myself stomping up the stairs and slamming my bedroom door; even uttering the requisite “it’s not fair”. Yesterday I re-discovered my lego set and played for hours with paradise island and palm trees. It made me feel somewhat better that my ex-boyfriend [long story] was on his knees with mecano at the same time.

My bedroom’s a mess and my mother’s annoyed. I’m slowly eating myself into fatclub, and I’ve run out of gin. The hilight of my day is the news feed on facebook – living vicariously through those friends who actually have a life. My late-night addiction involves lastminute.com and scouting the internet for cheap flights to Addis-Abbaba and Port Moresby. My backpack is looking sorrowful in the corner, and my feet are impossibly itchy. Was it really only three weeks ago since I was in the depths of the Philippines, pre-typhoon? And just 2months since I left the dirt of Kolkata behind? Strange how I can behave and function like a responsible adult anywhere in the world other than Kidderminster. Over-rated, perhaps.