Went to see the Henri Rousseau exhibition at the Tate Modern yesterday and was enchanted. This painting was shown in the last year of his life and marks the culmination of his life’s work, stylistically and metaphorically, and what is nice is that it was recognised as such at the time.

I’m in London en route back to Italy on Monday and this penny-jetset lifestyle has to stop for a few months while I get some serious work done. January has been really good, things feel like they are moving in the right direction. As I’ve been telling my friends, with the flat in Dublin sorted in September and other flashes of serendipity, I might, just might, begin to accept that the universe isn’t against me, that it might be allowing me to succeed. It’s a good feeling but it makes me feel tiny, awed, like a great big hand has swooped down from above and lifted me and plomped me down in a different, unfamiliar landscape.