I’m moving to my friend’s house today. I sit amongst boxes and cases, the last thing to be packed, my computer. It’s a happy day. And a sad day.

I have 30 days’ leave which I have to take over Christmas but the thought of sitting in London for 30 days trying not to spend money, in the winter, makes me lose the will to live. I would usually go home. But a good friend is in India, the country that has been at the top of my travel list since I left SA 19 years ago but to which I’ve never been. So, I’m renting out my room whilst I’m gone (and for two weeks either side). It pays for my ticket and then some. I. Am. Going. To. India. For a month. I’m beyond excited. I’ve been counting down the sleeps, not the weeks, since early November. Grow up much? Today marks the beginning of that wee journey. Happy day.

But I am going to miss my Freddie. Feeling slightly pathetic I’m wiping away a small tear (not for the first time) as I look at him sniffing around my bags. He’s been awfully skittish, and giving me dirty looks. I know what those eyes are saying. They’re reminding me about the neighbour’s green box. The one he moved into as punishment when I went away last time. I feel bad that he will not have absolute control over one single pussy-whipped human for a whole two months.

I know though, that if he could talk (or actually gave a shit about more than whether I provided a comfortable enough knobbly bit to lie on, or a sleepy enough face to claw and what at 5am), he’d be telling me it was okay. That he supports me, that it’s important that I go and see this place I’ve always wanted to see. And that it’s great that I’m going to spend a month learning my Bikram dialogue and therefore starting proper on this yoga teaching dream I yearn for. Of course he’d be saying that. Yes. Yes he would. I know what that type of yawn means.