Last night I entertained. Not so much as putting on a clown suit and juggling, but had real people, with real lives over for dinner. This meant I put away things like the boxes of flags and face tattoos so I didn't look like a person who would be happy to run a wholesale operation from their studio. And I sorted my kitchen cupboard. I don't know why, as they didn't go in there. Something to do with my mother, though I never got to that part of the therapy.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the couple in question, lets call them Benjamin and Caroline, are quite mad. Barking. It's always the quiet ones you have to worry about... ! I also realised they were younger than me.

I think I have a bit of an age issue at the moment. Not one of those "oh my I am so old" issues but an awareness of self and achievement, a sort of delayed coming of age. I thought Benjamin and Caroline were older than me because they had the trappings of achievement; a flat with floor space, mod cons and a book on how to make cocktails. They also have each other. It's been a while since I've seen a couple so suited and mad about each other, in a sweet not face slurping not stomach turning way.

After they left, I left. The night was, in insomniac Australian standards, young. Also several people were having soirees around the city, Wednesday being little Friday and all. I could have stayed home and done the dishes, but I feel that would have left me a little unfulfilled on a Wednesday pretending to be Friday night.

But heading into town, I realised I felt bloody anti social, or at least not in the mood for small talk with people I didn't know. The Cowboy Plumber was well on his way to oblivion; not a good stop. Uma was positively upbeat and I couldn't bring myself to ruin that. So it was the Kebab Mafia who rescued me from the bus station when I arrived down town with a few of those salty things blinking in the eyes and muttering to myself.

We went to a hotel lobby because I was reduced to that part of me that only feels comfortable in hotels (a bad hark to the past) and found solace in the dark wood and strange design on the top floor of the Sokos hotel. It was all coming back...

...Next week working with The Finn. Trying to make contact to check, check and double check that neither of us were going to have a nervous breakdown live on YLE...
...Six weeks and being out of here, and the light at the end of the tunnel, not motivational, but terrifying, so close is now so far away...
...Letting go of new friends. The first goodbyes. Simakun has already left. Saying to AussieGirl's Finn that we will meet again, next year, Australia. Leaving just as I am caring about people...
...Sharing my space. The Irishman is moving in and naturally it wrinkles the edges of both of our comfort zones...
...The Irishman, who is a mix of layers and words, some sweet some bitter. It's an onion I'm not in the mood for eating...

The Kebab Mafia was surprisingly patient as I waxed lyrical, nursed a hot chocolate and let one very well formed tear drop; right cheek only.

Six weeks. Six only. And then I can take and leave what I want from this place. Six weeks and I know that my friends become a list of names on messenger. That the Irishman will be a photo gallery I follow. Six weeks and The Finn will be just a pile of photos in a shoe box.

A shoebox and a laptop: not exactly the trappings of achievement.