This afternoon, I spoke with an older English gentleman who lives in or near Avignon in France. His daughter lives in Amsterdam. I suspect that he’s from Hampshire. Or Chichester, perhaps? (He knows where Hayling Island is.) His grandson only speaks Dutch.

I’ve once chatted with a woman in the street where his daughter lives. She has a brother who lives in England. Might they be the same person? Who knows. I think she did have a small boy with her, too.

I’ve noticed myself changing – a little, not too much with – my increasing absence from England and I’m not liking it. (I’ve said something similar about England, but granted, anti-foreigner sentiments can be hard to deal with.)

Instantly after my exchange with this gentleman, Amsterdam’s atmosphere clashed with how I felt.

I told him that I had often grumbled in England and that I now discovered that I’d become far more English than I’d realised and that I miss many things.

I’ve never really missed the Netherlands while abroad and nothing from it either, such as foods. Yes, when things are tough, I may rebelliously buy tulips and say stuff, but that’s just frustration speaking.

After a tough time abroad, I may experience a few days of relief but it fades very quickly and returning from geological fieldwork in the past always drove home that this really wasn’t where I wanted to be.

Some things we don’t get choose.

I’m definitely only here temporarily. Most people I meet here don’t stick in my mind at all. It’s as if my brain definitely made its mind up.