Not invested

The plane home flew over Crete and I wanted to be on holiday on a sun-soaked taverna terrace, eating moussaka. It can be very difficult to plan annual leave and rest time with so much work travel and sometimes I'm reluctant to lock it down in case I'm asked to go somewhere last minute, as with an upcoming Mozambique trip.

There was a worrying tilting as we landed but I suppose trainee pilots have to practise somewhere. The temperature announcement was 17 degrees, mother was texting me advising me that it was 'vest weather' and I scurried to add layers.

Back home it was the kind of damp day that makes you want to gorge on toasted bagels with half a slab of butter, which I did. The drug dealers remain loyal to the narrow alleyway between the houses and allotments, and I've still got a stuffy nose (after about 5 weeks) that keeps bleeding. I walked to the office to print something before remembering that before my trip I hadn't been able to. Two weeks in South Sudan hasn't miraculously fixed the problem.

The notion of genteel Cambridge was smashed by drunken partygoers from the Travelodge next door raging up and down the street through the night.