I can barely believe we’re half way through the year. In three weeks I’ll walk away from my job for the last time. In six weeks I’ll fly back to Melbourne and my London days will be behind me. Between now and then I have a mindboggling array of things that need to get done. Once I’m there the list just gets longer. Meanwhile there is someone coming by to have a second look at the flat today. Is it too much to hope that they’ll put in an offer? What a great start to the month that would be!

Could the tide be turning? It only takes one, and one has appeared – or two to be precise. I know it’s important not to get ahead of ourselves but if the promise turns into fact then in one fell swoop a major hurdle will have been crossed and we can focus more fully on the forward journey rather than the means with which to get there. It may all come down to naught of course. This may simply be the first of a series of false starts. But it’s hard not to be seduced by the thought that maybe, just maybe . . .

I keep telling myself not to get carried away but another part of me simply says, why not? Why not imagine the best possible outcome? Why not believe that it can be easy and straightforward? There’s something deliciously empowering about optimism. I’ve always been the kind to see the glass as half full and yes, sometimes this means I end up disappointed .But that’s okay; it’s not as though disappointment’s a terminal condition. In the meantime, a healthy dose of optimism helps me to get up in the morning and face the day, and that can’t be a bad thing.

Our weekends are generally lazy ones. We both work hard and for all that we have one of the world’s great cultural capitals literally outside the front door, more often than not we’re content to stay home and potter around. Perhaps there will come a time when our recent lack of engagement with London will seem perplexing but when you’ve lived here for a while it becomes all too easy to take for granted. I have no doubt we’re going to miss it all when we’ve gone but then, that’s life. It’s why change can sometimes be a good thing.

We’ve had an offer on the flat. It falls well short of the asking price but it’s a start nonetheless. We in turn have made a counter offer. The prospect of getting the sale sorted sooner rather than later is heartening but this is only the start of the process. All we can do is wait and see and trust our gut instincts. I’m prepared for things to be straightforward. I have a sense of things gaining a natural momentum; a sense that the timing is right and that fate might be playing into our hands. It’s a tantalizing thought.

We sit in a sunlit garden and discuss the future of the kids, the ones currently under my supervision but soon to be under his. “It’s still your show, you know,” he says. “I’m just the stranger lurking in the background.” It’s true. I have wondered whether in these last few days my authority would have started to wane but it hasn’t done. They still look to me for the final word and I’m still the one to crack the whip if it needs cracking. His is a very different style to mine. It will take them a while to readjust.

London is awful when it gets hot. The trains are stifling, the buses heat up like tin cans and the buildings are unbearable. For a country that caters so well for the cold there is little or no provision made for the heat and after months of moaning about the cold weather everyone starts moaning about how hot it is. Air-conditioning is a foreign concept. A colleague was genuinely surprised when I told her we had air-conditioning at home.

“What, you mean the real thing?”

“Yep, you bet!”

One thing I’m really looking forward to back home is universal air-conditioning.

I’m getting so little sleep it’s affecting my capacity to remain positive. Emerging from the Underground at North Greenwich I climb aboard the 132 to Eltham wondering where I’m going to find the energy on this, the hottest day of the year. I have an aching tooth that I‘ve no time to attend to, we still have no real movement on the sale of the flat and we’ve been up late all this week talking to our architect in Melbourne about our new planning submission and trying to persuade our troublesome neighbour not to lodge any more objections. I’m knackered!

Whether we like it or not they’ve decided to play hardball. In the face of this and with no other offer on the table we’ve decided to cave in and accept their offer. It’s not the offer we were hoping for but it’s not dreadful either and at least it will allow us to have closure on this part of the process and move on to the next. With so much still to be done, everything rests on selling the flat. Without that we do we won’t know where our finances stand and we won’t be able to move forward.

I could really do without a toothache right now. I’ve been trying to put it to the back of my mind in the hope that it would go away but it hasn’t. I’ve tried flossing; I’ve tried using those god-awful poky little brush things the hygienist gave me and I’ve been using mouthwash a dozen times a day. I’ve massaged it, poked it, rubbed it, even wiggled it in the vain hope of relieving the pressure on it, all to no avail. Nope! There’s no getting around the fact that I’m going to have to get myself to the dentist.

I blame the daughter. The father liked it. The mother liked it. Then they had to bring the daughter round to have a look. She’s just back from Australia. She thinks it’s too small. She has no idea of the London property market or London prices. She’s not even going to be living in it! Still, that’s all academic now. They’ve withdrawn their offer and now we’re back to square one. It’ll be a month tomorrow that I leave. We keep trying to convince ourselves that things will work out but we’re increasingly anxious. What if? What if? What if?

In the night I awaken, my mind abuzz with a myriad of conflicting thoughts; the kind that keep you awake at night. I want to go back to sleep but what’s that damned noise? I try to ignore it. I can’t. Before long I’m climbing out the kitchen window to see if it’s the air-conditioning unit on the roof. It isn’t. I go back to bed. Then it stops. Relief! And then it starts again. Damn! And then it stops. I should be asleep. I’m not.

Then, just as I might be, you sneeze. Loudly!

And then it starts again.

It’s the thought of returning on my own and leaving you behind with all the hassle of selling up that bothers me so - that and not knowing whether it will be two months or three or even more before you follow on. I hate the uncertainty. I can deal with the disruption. I can deal with all the hassle. I can deal with all the stress. It’s just this one thing that’s wearing me down. Dealing with everything while we’re both here in London is one thing but doing it while we’re 12,000 miles apart? That is something else again.

I don’t think I can deal with so many farewells all at once. I’d much prefer to quietly slip out the back door and be on my way. It’s not that I don’t appreciate all the good will; I just don’t know where I’m going to muster all the emotional energy. I’ve been increasingly sleep deprived of late and a nasty bout of gum infection has further taken the shine off things. The coming days and months are going to be pretty challenging and right now all I want to do is shut up shop and sleep for a while.

I worry about what’s going to happen to these kids. Some of them will be fine but the ones who are going into the new Focus group are in for a shock. My successor may have the necessary diagnostic skills but without the interpersonal skills that working with these kids demand I fear the whole thing will crash and burn even before it gets off the ground. I hope I’m wrong. I may be feeling disillusioned about what we have and haven’t been able to achieve but that doesn’t mean I wish these kids ill: quite the opposite in fact.

A signal failure on the Jubilee Line finds me sitting on the number 453 bus to New Cross. Low clouds scuttle by like giant balls of cotton wool. A guy on the bag rack behind me is sleeping, his elbow slipping down and catching my shoulder every so often; woman sitting next to me is gazing passively at the stream of traffic passing by in the opposite direction; another woman sitting opposite me in a green Indian sari is humming quietly to herself and I’m sitting here musing about how this is the last Friday I’ll be working in London.

Just another three days at work and it will all be over. It’s almost over now. I’m not expecting many of the kids to be in next week. That will be a blessing. There’s such a mountain of work still to get through, including the school reports which need to be posted out on Monday. You’d think things would be winding down but the place is undergoing a major re-structure in the coming school year and everyone is trying to get as much in place as they can before the summer break. As for me, I finish in three days.

As Sundays go there’s been nothing remarkable about this one. It hasn’t really sunk in that I finish up at work this week or that in less than four weeks I’ll be back in Melbourne. I got up early as usual, bought the morning paper, prepared breakfast and after breakfast checked my email. This afternoon I pottered around, went for a walk, came back, watched a bit of television, prepared some work for school, watered the plants and did the ironing. It’s a little surreal to think this is all going to change, and soon!

It hasn’t sunk in yet.

It’s been an odd sort of a day. I spent most of it in my office trying to get as much paperwork done as possible. Meanwhile, the office itself was being pulled apart around me and carted off to different parts of the building. Someone else is going to be taking over the room after I leave and they need to have it set up and in place before Wednesday. So! If I had any illusions about the fact that it’s all coming to an end before today, after today I have been left in no doubt. Everything is changing.

I don’t think I can do this anymore. My brain has seized up, my body aches all over and I feel like an emotional wreck. I’m waking up in the middle of the night with my mind racing and finding it totally impossible to get back to sleep again. I’ve have too many people wanting too many things from me and I feel like I’ve got nothing more to give. I know it’s all finishing up tomorrow and I really enjoyed the farewell drinks with all my work colleagues after work this afternoon but boy do I need a rest!

So here it is, the last day I’ll arrive at North Greenwich station and catch the 132 bus to Eltham; the last time I’ll turn on my cranky old computer and check my Newhaven email account; the last time I’ll hold morning briefing with the team; the last time I’ll have breakfast with the kids; the last time I’ll patrol the corridor to monitor their behaviour; the last time I’ll have to smile and be nice to the boss; the last time I’ll have to gobble down lunch in five minutes . . .

Yes, finally, today is my last day at work.

So there you have it: I never have to go back there again. All that involvement, all that responsibility, all that engagement with so many individuals – all finished and done with. Finito! How does it feel? Weird. Now that it’s over I don’t know how I managed to make it over the line. I lost my appetite for the job ages ago and ever since it’s been an act of pure bloody mindedness to keep on turning up each day. I’ll miss the staff and I may even miss some of the kids, but the institution itself?

Not in the slightest!

I’m lying vaguely inebriated by the warmth of a roaring fire in a darkened field where a group of us are camping out for the night. I thought I’d be in a sociable mood but my social skills appear to have deserted me. Instead I’m feigning sleep while allowing the conversation of others to wash over me. The frenetic pace of recent weeks is still too immediate and any desire for small talk deserted me hours ago. So I’ll just lay here and play dead for a while and leave it to others to solve the problems of the world.

Having spent a couple of days down on the island with friends I now wend my way back to London for one last time. Bathing in the cool sunshine of the late afternoon I stand on deck and watch its familiar silhouette slide away into the distance. Once the focus of all my nostalgic childhood memories it has become an integral part of my adult life, as have the people who reside there. I’m sad to be leaving but I know it is one of the reasons I will return to this hemisphere. Because this is where I come from.

I have loved living here in London. Our little flat is modest but nicely appointed. We overlook a busy street well serviced by cafés, restaurants, pubs and a good selection of shops. In summer it fills with tourists and you can hear a multitude of languages drifting up from below. In winter it becomes quieter and takes on a more localised flavour. While in recent months I have started to disengage from London there can be no denying that my time here has been a rich and immensely satisfying one. And yes, I am sure I will miss it terribly.

Monday morning and I don’t have to go back to that place. It’s been five full days now but I still don’t feel fully divorced from it all yet. In my mind’s eye everything is still in place despite the fact it was all being pulled apart while I was there. I’m guessing it will take a few more days yet. In the meantime it’s beginning to dawn on me that I only have a little over two weeks until I fly out and we still don’t have a buyer for the flat. Betwixt and between I think it’s called.

It’s disconcerting having total strangers traipse through your home, scrutinising everything with a critical eye as they try to imagine themselves living in it. Before we bought it eight years ago this flat was all but uninhabitable with holes in the ceiling you could put your fist through, rotting window frames that were all but falling out, walls covered in layers of crusty wallpaper and a smelly old bathroom you could have grown mushrooms in. But we saw the potential and completely transformed it. Now all we need is for someone to walk through the door and think, I’m home!

At last, we have a buyer. Not only that, we have a buyer who wants to settle things quickly. After weeks of uncertainty we now have a sense of being able to move forwards. The sense of relief is enormous. I met the buyer earlier in the week, a likeable man whose wife hails from Melbourne. It was his second viewing and his enthusiasm for the flat was palpable. And why not? It’s a great little flat on a funky road in the heart of London. It should have been snapped up weeks ago. What’s not to love about it?

It’s beginning to dawn on me just how much needs to be done before I leave London. There are bank accounts to close, credit cards to cancel, estate agents and solicitors to deal with, taxation matters to attend to, cupboards to clean out, things to pack or throw away, people to touch base with – the list goes on and on. It all adds to the surreal quality of this period. It’s been an incredibly full and busy year and there’s plenty more yet to come. I may have to pause and catch my breath sometimes, but life is anything but dull.

I went to see the Henry Moore exhibition the Tate this morning. I did so with the best of intentions, hoping to immerse myself in the work of this giant of British art and for a while I succeeded. I couldn’t sustain the focus for long though. Instead I wandered home and slept on the couch for an hour, overwhelmed by a creeping sense of fatigue. Then a friend calling from France awoke me and after half an hour or animated conversation the fatigue dissipated leaving me free to enjoy the rest of the day at a more leisurely pace.

Today being the first time in ten years my partner and I have shared my birthday together, we celebrated it with friends at the Pollo Bar in Soho, a regular haunt many years ago when I was last in London. The food was simple, the wine cheap but very drinkable and the conversation animated and varied. When everyone started singing Happy Birthday I looked around to see who the enormous cake was for, only to realise it was for me, a wonderful gesture from my wonderful partner who sat grinning from ear to ear at my genuine surprise and delight.