Somehow in its labyrinthine way, the library has moved while I have remained in my spot surrounded by bookcases. I am still wrapped in my blanket, my nose still buried in a book, but now my little cushioned corner is at the foot of the stairs. All I have to do is turn and walk up them. I fully intend to keep them at my back until the last moment. It’s only when I am at the airport, boarding the plane that I’ll let myself look up, stretch my legs and really realise that this is happening.
Over the past week, particularly the past few days, there has been the strangest addition to my little corner of the library; a ping-pong table. For it is not war that my mind is waging with itself, there are no fiery explosions nor grievous wounds. Neither is it a game of chess, there is little logic and no pause for breath. It is ping-pong and I, as my own opponent am constantly darting to and fro across the table. ‘I can’t do this,’ I bat. ‘It’s too late to turn back now, you’re going,’ I volley back. Back and forth it goes, the ball carrying with it waves of panic then floods of excitement and relief.
‘Run and hide.’
‘Look out and see.’
Regardless of where the points are dropped and lost, I am going to Italy. If for no other reason than because I can’t let Arlo down. In my next blog post there will be pictures, assuming he remembers the camera.