Way back when on Sunday 12 November 2007, the day before I left London, I pictured shutting the door to my Australian apartment for the last time and tried to imagine the sense of sadness which I was sure that I would feel.
At 06.40 AEDT this morning, having stayed up till 3 am cleaning, packing and mourning my departure I hefted my luggage out and closed the door on Apartment 614, YVE, 576-578 St Kilda Road, Melbourne, VIC, 3004.
I didn't picture the last sad glance at the patch of carpet where I spent so many hours sitting on the floor trading the Ashes and the CB series or how much I know I am going to miss a walk-in power shower.
Visualising a moment in the future (especially one full of pathos) is like dropping marker dye in the ocean and to paddle the raft through it can't help but me sad, throwing the roaring passage of time into contrast with my personal and professional regression.
Fortunately I'm now back in Christchurch at Offthesquare. The average stay for the typical guest here is probably two nights but I think that when I leave next Wednesday I will have spent three weeks out of the last fifty three here. I know where the leisure centre is, where to run, where to hire a bike on Saturday. I have a sense of returning to somewhere I am familiar with, which makes up for the sadness of leaving Melbourne. As everyone knows I love Melbourne to pieces but much more so for having left it. Shopping for fruit in Prahran Market is a looooong way from pushing a trolley around Pak'N Save, which is like Aldi without the frills.
I've just been to see The Last King Of Scotland, which was complete crap apart from Forest Whittaker. If there's an Oscar for Best Actor In A Poorly Scripted, Cliche-Ridden Film Which Uses Slow-Motion Shots Of Running & Smiling African Children Set To Generic African Vocal Music To Cover Its Many Faults then I hope he gets it.
And, touch wood, this time next week I will be home.
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