I’ve just returned from a week in Tenerife, my first out-of-the-country trip since LA. It made me smile when one of the waitstaff at the hotel said to me, ‘hey I love your style – eating alone, with your bottle of wine and your book and your nice blue shoes.’ I had ordered a bottle of wine from her to eat with my meal, asking to take it back to my room afterwards. I’d wanted to get into my pyjamas, have a glass of wine and watch TV in bed. I’d taken my habits with me. I inch towards my holiday persona, who doesn’t have movie star glamour, who isn’t concerned with artifice, but is in communion with her own wants, needs and pleasures. Even if I know a timidity might set in, as though all my powers of aloneness have been spent by the heroic act of arriving elsewhere, on every trip I relearn how to be alone. I’m still travelling, travelling, travelling.