Folders at my feet and a running-out pen in my hand, I work hard for a few hours. I am lying on my front on the trampoline, occassionally attempting to rub the indents of grass from my ankles.

Sitting on the brick wall outside the student union in the sun, wondering how much energy it would take to climb down and onto the grass to make a daisy chain. "So how are you?" says someone, "Wild child?"

Walking home, the white flower on the toe of my flip flop digging in with every step. Ice cream stick in one hand, the other hanging uncertainly by my side. I never know what to do with my hands. Bastard guy drives past and leers from his look-at-me-I-think-I'm-sexy-and-rich red converable. I almost throw melty stick at him.

No-one here is smiling today. Everyone has something on their mind. This is almost like two years ago, only this time I have my head more firmly screwed on. We ate dinner in silence, and gave our mozerella slices to my sister. As is the tradition.

Sitting here in the semi-dark, soaking in bad news. Even bad news from so far away, an incomprehensible number of miles away (where they make spinach dishes in amazing and secret ways) hits hard. The commune is still here, waiting for you. So is the goat, but don't forget, we're sharing everything. Free love. And free goats. I will stay here and wait until you get back.

I must be the only person who spent the last day of the Easter holidays revising on a trampoline.