Well, I’m in Dublin, and here to stay, it seems. I feel very strange – moving is stressful, but moving countries is bizarre. I feel dismembered, scattered over Europe, with paperwork still coming from London, boxes still to come from Italy, my Irish identity still not sorted, but on its way. I’ve still not moved into my new place yet, that will happen next weekend. So I’m staying with my parents, which is great, they’re thrilled skinny to have the prodigal home, although I’m living out of suitcases. My sister was waiting for me at the airport with a big “welcome home” sign. Awww.

Leaving Tuscany was so emotional that I can’t really say much about it here. Saying goodbye to everyone there was very tearful, yet they were very sweet tears. I couldn’t leave without buying my return ticket back to see everyone again in November for a few days, and I left my bike there as incentive.

Bank accounts, broadband, bills, all to be sorted. It appears I will be eligible for 6MB broadband from NTL, which is a boon, I hadn’t expected that. I doubt I will need a landline in that case, VOIP should work very well with that sort of speed. The bank seems to be happy to accept my closing London utility bills as identity, sent to my new Dublin address, so that’s a plus. And I had forgotten how charming shop assistants and call centre people are in Ireland – I have had very pleasant chatty conversations with everyone so far, in trying to set up new accounts and making enquiries.

Going to get a new bicycle today. Shopping yesterday for one was very pleasant. Cheerful staff in the shops I went in to. In London, bicycle shops are staffed by people who make you feel like an amateur, when you just want an ordinary reliable hybrid commuter bike, and aren’t spending thousands on a machine to take you on the Tour de France. Not so here. One guy in one shop I remembered from before 1993, when I was last living here – he used to be the young guy, the son helping out, churlish, chip on his shoulder – now he’s a middle-aged balding man with glasses, confident and pleasant, running the place.

But I’m very tired, too, and I find myself talking and then stopping half-way through my sentences, like running into sand. And my disorientation was complete when I came down to the kitchen yesterday and found two strange men sitting at the table having tea, who are painting the outside of the house. I said “Ciao” to them, not thinking. But they were Polish.

And – the prices. Oh dear. A too-milky cappuccino for €2.85, that sure woke me up. I’ve been paying €1 for the real thing in Italy, even in Florence.

I think I’ll get used to it all. In time.