I would like to say I haven't been writing because my life has become fabulously tumultuous with love affairs and scandal. Six months ago you would have been bang on the money, and with a heady emphasis on the bang, but these days the only shagging I participate in is last night's overtly graphic dream about someone wonderfully inappropriate.
Instead, I have been going to bed before my housemates stumble in blearily from the pub and getting up in time to hear (nearly) all of Chris Moyles' show. I work out, an hour a day. I eat good things, in that sensible low-fat high-fibre proper diet fashion, I drink hardly anything and I have lost a stone in a matter of weeks. It is all terribly grown-up but it is also occasionally Really Fucking Boring.
Thing is, I just don't care. I like not being hungover. I like my girlfriends' jaws hitting the floor when I stepped off the train this weekend looking delicious (if I do say so myself), I like cooking and going to aerobics and enjoying the comparative stillness of an early morning city street.
I think, perhaps, I am about ready to move on from being a student. And I didn't ever think that would happen.
It is Itchy Feet syndrome, but on a more life-changing level than my usual escapes from England.