I'm in England now, so that Small can see her Father, and I can see the Teenager. That's the thing about living in France, for me, having to come back to England a lot. When I do I'm not sure who I am anymore, and where I actually live, and where I like best. And also, the day before I fly, BF and I generally fall out, badly, at midnight so there's an added frission of stress and upset and a vague depressing feeling of having been here before, and not in a good way.

In England, unlike chilly France, the sky is blue, and so at first I'm jolly glad to be here away from the cold and rain, and endless domestic chores of France. Here I'm just an almost single bod gadding about, ping ponging between different sets of friends, a bit of a nomad with a bag over my shoulder.

At the Ex's house to pick up the Teenager so that I can be a Macdonalds Mum for the afternoon (actually slightly more sophisticated now - a shopping Mum), I see my ex sister and brother in law. It's the first time I've seen them in 7 years, before then it was nearly twenty years of hanging out together. They're lovely as always, and we're all pleased to see each other, but it's uncomfortable exchanging news in front of the ex, and so we all stand awkwardly around on the sunny pavement. The kids just look on,Small looking glum because 1. she is missing me and seeing me reminds her or (possibly more likely) 2. she is having a ball in England with her Dad and second family, and doesn't want to be reminded that she's torn between two homes and two countries - a feeling she only gets when she comes back to England. In France she's a little French girl happily charging round on her bike and riding horses and generally being fine and a bit French.

Away from my ex family and my ex life, no one in England seems that cheerful, and no wonder. The endless drone of financial ruin is everywhere and getting on everyones nerves, and it feels as if everyone is under the cosh in some way, standing on the edge of a precipace not knowing if they're going to fall, or be pushed or walk away unscathed. Meanwhile the wretched media, having battered everyone into the ground with tales of woe and disater and hardship is now saying it all might get better - too little, too late.

I feel like I need another adventure, and I still haven't got a horse, so part of me wants to sell up in France and buy a farm in England. Not my most practical thought, and since I haven't actually won the lottery and still have no desire to sign up for TV work again, I'll probably have to give up on the thought before it takes root.

What do I miss? My old life, the fact that friends and family are a drive away, the English countryside, warm houses, knowing my way around. Being able to chat without feeling like an idiot who will never get the hang of a new language.

After five days Small and I get back on a plane, early in the morning, Small in tears as she says goodbye to her Dad. I didn't get long enough she sobs, I miss my Dad, as the plane lifts and soars through a clear bright blue emptiness. I feel wretched, the cause of all the anguish.Nor did I, I think, not time enough or home enough.