We leave on the first properly cold day of a UK winter; the train speeding us to Gatwick through trees gleaming  frostily through the fog. When we are “travelling”, moving from place to place every few days, I’m pretty good at packing the bare minmum, aware that we’ll be in and out of cities, on and off buses, trains and planes and a surfeit of stuff is just a pain to haul around. But being settled in one place for 2 months plus my new gigantic Argos suitcase inspires me to take not only the black and white capsule wardrobe ChatGPT and I have planned but all sorts of floaty stuff I’ve bought from Boohoo and not even tried on yet and pretty much most of my summer clothes stored up in the attic, all of which of course require different shoes. Pretty much the opposite of a capsule anything. You’d think I’m going to be attending parties galore, perhaps taking up my job as ambassador, not reverting to scruffy student wear when I will basically be shuffling about in flip flops, t-shirt and shorts. My bag weighs so much I can barely lift it and is way over the limit for our flight. After some ruthless culling I manage to reach an acceptable weight, then Clive fills it with all the things he couldn’t fit into his suitcase. 

Of course, I start to feel a bit grotty on the plane and by the second day of our week with the kids in Fuertaventura I am in the voiceless phase of what I suspect is Covid that variously feels like swallowing razor blades, headache, neckache, throbbing sinuses, palpitations, popping ears, a feeling like water shooting up my nose even though I have only blinked, and, the most troublesome symptom for the rest of our rental house, wounded-rhino decibel level snoring. Eventually I realise the solution and book myself into a hotel up the road. It has a gigantic Emperor-sized bed, satin sheets and a hot running shower all to myself. I tell them all I am in a youth hostel. I think Katy suspects.