Beep. Beep. It’s the alarm clock, meaning that the hour has struck seven. Get up, get dressed, carry the bags downstairs, make some coffee, each some toast, bid farewell to Tom. Walk to the bus stop, get off at the railway station, buy a ticket to London, notice that the train couldn’t be any fuller, sweat the first litre. Then drag the 30-odd kilos that are your bags to the coach station, sit down for a while, sleep all the way till Stansted, arrive an hour before takeoff, realize they’re calling for your flight and run like hell. Sweat another litre, pay four pounds for a meager tuna sandwich, order pyttipanna and chicken nuggets in Swedish at the Skavsta airport, pay as much for the meal as for the tickets to Finland. Write this entry.