I had a perfect little moment today –a moment so lovely that everything was right with the world while it lasted– but I have gone and lost is memory. You see, my perfect little moment was followed by a tiny little disappointment, and my heart got a little stuck on that, as it is wont to do, understandably perhaps but stupidly, too, because all I can taste when I look back now is a subtle blend of embarrassment, sadness, and longing, with none of the happy golden overtones of the magic that had preceded it. And I think to myself, once again: spend your attention wisely and well, it is powerful and precious.

What I do remember, however –what even my fickle heart could not misplace– is the sunshine, the first truly warm sunshine of the year. I was nearly drunk on it, giddy with joy and relief and gratitude, for all winters are long, and I had held my breath for most of Monday, too. And so I sat there, silly, giggling, and grateful, for this life that I have come across and for this job that I have chosen, because although it breaks my heart at regular intervals and it makes me pull my hair out twice as often, it does allow for afternoons spent soaking up the sun and it has, ever so beautifully, filled my life with so much love that wouldn’t otherwise have been there.

‘Remember the magic,’ I said, and then I disappeared.

I ran off to Greece, where August was a very different experience. Turning leaves and chilly winds where nowhere to be found. Instead there were flowering bugambilias and sweltering days, and although the nights came earlier there, too, autumn seemed to exist in a different universe. But in spite of the abundance of watermelon, or the sand on my toes, or the salt on my skin, or the stars in the sky that greeted me as I lay on the beach at night something wasn’t quite right. I was glad for the plane ride back, and for the rain that fell in London.

And London, oh, London was beautiful — the river mostly, but also the rain. We argued, and I cried, in the rain at that too, and it felt a little like that day from five years ago; except that this time we managed to find our own way out of it, which, I think, is the least we can do after five years. The rain stopped just in time for the sun to come out for a sunset, and for a moment or two the sky was pink and orange and reflected, upside-down, in puddles, and I was happy to be alive.

September came next, the most mixed-up English September I can remember, with sun and rain alternating as if it was spring and not autumn that was on its way. One afternoon early on I stood in the golden sunlight arranging all the desks the school owns by height, giddy with the pointlessness, the silliness and the urgency of what I was doing, and praying that come Monday it would all turn out okay. (It did.) On another afternoon I had a conversation so honest it was almost unreal in a corner of Exeter that is so ugly it is almost beautiful, and I walked away, once again, overwhelmed by the unlikeliness of this life and of its contradictions.

On a third afternoon the rain felt softly on the puddles in the park, each drop calling forth a perfect temporary circle, and I walked through it –an entirely unremarkable park– as it if it was enchanted forest, because the stars and my heart were aligned just right and everything was alive with magic. I thought of Kyra, who once said that the writing, it only happens when we write; of Ian; and of my own words of wisdom; and I concluded that the remembering, it only happens when we remember. And I vowed to came back and to write this down –for you, for me– and to try harder.

It would be nice to be able to say that October was, as a result, filled with magic –it would make for a nice ending– but it would be a lie. October passed me by. There were moments –the first truly cold day, a warm coat and a new favourite hat, all different kinds of fallen leaves against London pavements– but little that made a strong enough impression to have stayed behind. November seemed like it would go the same way, but then something happened. I left the house to get a haircut, I think, and I discovered the most exquisite autumn fog, and I thought to myself, in an echo of something I have thought before, that Exeter looked like a poem about autumn. And in that moment, just like that, I loved this world again.

PS Am I back? Dare I say that this will be continued?

On our third day in Prague, inspired by the Happiness Project which I had just finished reading, I set myself the task of coming up with my ‘personal commandments.’ I did it in a restaurant that our guide called a diner, hence the name. I wrote this down on the back of a spare place mat, in the time it took for our dinner to be cooked. I edited it a little on the plane ride home, and I have done a little re-arranging tonight, but the core of it reminds unchanged.

And so, without further ado, I present you with the Prague Diner Manifesto:

1. Follow your heart.
2. And do it with courage.
3. Remember to pray for what you want, and you may just get it.
4. Remember all the magic you have come across, and it will beget new magic.
5. Act with grace, even, or perhaps especially, when others fail to do so.
6. Don’t take the world’s imperfections personally; they are not because of you.
7. Practice patience; impatience does not make things happen.
8. Spend your attention wisely and well; it is powerful and precious.
9. Keep the faith; there is a reason for this madness, although you may never know it.
10. Love is the stick you throw.
11. Love is the seed you plant.
12. Love is its own reward.

Wait, gentle reader. Don’t go just yet. For once, I would like to ask something of you. If you do exist, please, please leave a comment with one of your own commandments. I would really like to know.

And then I blinked, and it was August.

In this crazy country, where summer is at its height when it begins and at its worst when you need it most, August feels positively autumnal. Just to prove this point, the tree across the street has decided to start turning red. The days, too, are suddenly noticeably shorter. I cannot escape the feeling that summer is over, and that before long my holidays will be too. September, with its rush of busyness and inspiration, with its demand for focus and action, with its need for hard work and early nights, suddenly seems just round the corner.

I’m not ready, I tell the tree as I stand by the window. I’m not ready, I tell the darkness as it falls, a little earlier than it did yesterday. I’m not ready, I tell the books I need to read and the plans I need to make and all the things I need to think of. I’m not ready. I need more summer, more idleness, more dreaminess and purposelessness, more time to drift and to just be. I’m not ready.

The tree doesn’t say anything, and neither does the night. The books stare silently. And as I stare back, I know this in my heart: just as surely as I will never be ready, I am as ready as I will ever be.

Which, on days like these, I sorely miss. The water, too.

Looking back, I like to think that the feeling I talked about in the previous post, of having arrived some place special was a premonition, and not my overactive imagination getting away with me. (Although, truth be told, the older I get the less convinced I become that there is a difference between those two.)

Because even though the three and a half days we spent there blur into a haze –a haze of swimming and sleeping and reading and eating and doing nothing much at all; even though no moment stands out except for one –walking through the city after dark and talking, urgently, breathlessly, effortlessly; even though I took no photos worth talking about; even though three and a half days is not long enough; even though it doesn’t make sense; even so: I left my heart in Budapest.

On Friday morning I boarded a plane knowing that strange things do happen, and wonderful things happen too. In three and a half days I’d made a friend and I’d fallen in love with a city; and in a small, or not-so-small way, nothing will ever be the same.

Despite the aforementioned midday nap I arrived in Budapest tired, confused and very nearly overwhelmed. I clang to my suitcase while Martijn wandered around in search of the new currency, almost wishing I didn’t have to go through the motions of getting to know a strange city all over again. But, determined to keep my resolution, I pulled out my camera and tried to capture the moment.

Martijn came back and pointed to the departures board: a train left for Thessaloniki in thirty five minutes. And –even though Thessaloniki, despite being my home town, has never felt like home, and even though the train took over a day to get there– this fact seemed, suddenly, magically, highly significant. Never before had my travels taken me to a place that was within reach of my hometown — my much-loved, so-very-familiar, yet-never-really-home home town. Suddenly, magically, I felt like we had arrived some place very special; like we had come full circle; like we were, this time, on our way home.

This train had a dining car — a definite improvement on the previous one, and the highlight of the seven-hour, inch-slowly-through-the-plains, in-three-different-countries journey. That, and the midday nap.

Sunday brought some kind of peace; a birthday; and the realisation that the things I liked most about Prague were things you can find anywhere — tram rides, an umbrella, a good cup of coffee, chocolate and marmalade pancakes, an internet connection.