The world outside has that special inviting scent of waiting to go on holiday. And yet here I am, stuck in Bloomsbury.

Other places I'd like to be:

Reading Proust at a Parisian streetside cafÃÆ'©.

Chasing seagulls with Mr B on English Bay.

Enjoying a cigarette, coffee and a dusty hardback on my grandmother's balcony in Cairo.

Wandering down the Serpentine with an umbrella for no apparent reason.

Spending all day with Romana in the pub trying different beers.

Terrifying Mr Anderson on St Andrew's pier.

Writing, in my room, with a fresh pot of coffee and the windows open.