Here is an arrogant little list.

Don’t hate me:  I know how wanky this is.

With the exception of a wedding photography session and us, all other park goers on Lovers’ Island are couples that expertly handle umbrellas for privacy. And the occasional weirdo man who comes to spectate. Well of course there is at least one suspiciously leery man.

Ah, it still amuses me to casually drop the ol’ when I was an airhostess into conversation.  And wait for the penny to drop that I’m not joking.

I am exceptionally fortunate to have a handful of friends where distance and time have little impact. Friendships forged in childhood or adolescence take on new forms into adulthood and across continents.

The jovial and ruthlessly efficient bath attendant gets to work – sluicing water over me, and scrubbing me down with coarse linen. I am the most docile creature in the world, and entirely obedient to this slightly maternal lady who stands beside the marble slab in her knickers, and washes me. I’m sat up, in a cloak of soap bubbles, and I realise how tight my shoulders are as the attendant starts kneading.

Just 36 hours in Amsterdam.   Yes, your gentle hero has invested her time loitering in a gallery, drinking European coffee and discovering that Australian directness and Dutch bluntness are perfectly matched for very productive business.

And by European coffee, I mean wine.

I’m trying to feel normal. I’m trying to get used to feeling comfortable. I’m seeing other people’s normal. And I want it for myself. I haven’t had this for far too long. The language may be different, but in my heart these few hours have been entirely Melbourne.