It’s taken less than a week, yet I am completely and utterly settled into the passionate life of doing not much.

By ‘not much’, I kind of mean the active version of ‘not much’, that involves drinking wine, sitting on the beach, reading crappy novels (so deplorable that I wouldn’t even watch the mini series version) and wasting money on phone calls to friends in Paris while hoeing my way through leftover Christmas cake.

My remaining brain cells are working at 50% of their power and I’m wondering whether any of them will survive the duration of 2010, when I plan to be doing a lot more of the same, except with more dancing and foreign cities thrown in. (Not that I am at all stressed about this, as I’m having a fabulous time. It’s not normal that the memory of consuming soft cheese in every meal today could trigger such feelings of satisfaction).

It’s a comforting, easy thought knowing that I am spending Summer in the same little nook of the world where I have always holidayed, where I know every street, every short cut and every bitchy sales assistant who is angered by holiday crowds. I see the same strangers on the beach and watch their children grow up. My body virtually goes into first gear and my brain grins as soon as I arrive at this place.

I wonder whether I will return here with the same enchanted feeling of coming home after my big trip? Or whether I will be disillusioned by the small town beachside charm? (I doubt it, this place has the best home-made gelati and vanilla slice in Melbourne).

Do you have a little home away from home where you grew up? And do you still feel the same way about it? Tell me what you’re are thinking, super cool bloggy bunnies…

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