I miss home. And I don't mean that I just miss my fabulous tea from Laduree and Mariage Freres, nor that I miss the guys; I miss the good things associated with my routine, the routine that I so often resent and which so often leaves me bickering to myself and at myself, for tasks as mundane as washing up or ironing two hankies. I miss my great hot chocolate with spirit/ice cream/whipped cream/delete as appropriate in the evenings, and I miss watching the Spider-man DVDs (why did I not slip one into the drive of the laptop?), and I miss my rye slices covered in Philly extra light and Marmite. More worryingly, I miss my own china, my fridge and my baking. My room here smells of nothing. When I open the door at home in the evening, I always get a whiff of baking, even if I haven't baked a thing for three days, mixed with some Dyptique candle. And I don't know why I am doing this but I have been reading recipes and a new book called Doggy Knits which I bought at Borders ton the Mag Mile, even though I cannot do anything with it right now. I suppose the so-called rut has its advantages; no matter the bickering, the parts that I love supersede in every way the ones that I hate. And I just cannot wait to return to my old-fashioned, if only questionably kitsch, kitchen.