I’ve heard people say that once you’ve emigrated, it’s impossible to go home – to ever really feel like the place is yours again. I thought, what nonsense, but still those words have stuck to me like a rogue piece of Sellotape.

When we landed in London six weeks ago, the prophecy showed signs of being true in little ways – I had to look closely at my British coins, I forgot that you have to pack your own shopping in supermarkets (and stood there at the check-out like a right Lady So-and-So), I needed a tube map, the price of everything made me do a double-take. Every tiny sign that I was a stranger in my own home city gave me a jolt.

But the trip is over now, the suitcases are packed and I definitely feel like I’m leaving home. All over again. I tortured myself with so many trips down memory lane this time that my partner said I was turning nostalgia into a sickness. That’s my habit of looking back versus his forward-drive, both of which have their faults and benefits.

Six weeks later I know this place is still mine, it’s just that my perspective has shifted so that now I long for the things that drive you mad if you live here all the time. You should see me on the underground or battling the crowds in Oxford Street or using the self-service check-out at Tesco – all smiles. I wonder how long it will take for me to lose the pleasure in those things when I return for good.