Last Saturday, Chiara and Laura rushed upstairs to take a photo with me; then rushed downstairs. 'Come again!' 'I am' 'When?' 'To Turkey' 'Turkey?' Torquay.

I flew over Torquay in a four-seater plane on Saturday. We flew over Totnes and turned at Burgh island, setting of Agatha Christie novels. Worn afterwards by West Country air and being on the edge of panic for an hour. Nothing level to hold onto but Julie-anne's seat. Once we were no longer airside we sat in the weird no-quarters of the pilots' lounge, single storey. Turbulence was tricky. I thought something had befallen Rusty, our lucky Cairn terrier, waiting in the car crossing his paws as we flew.

Fantastic hosts provided cheeseboard, port after a salmon and aspargus and roast potato main. As Carrie slept I sat downstairs in the open plan kitchen - the wind chime, the beep of the answerphone, the electrical hum of the wind blowing down the chimney.

Carrie read well at Exeter. I didn't like to be back. Felt on the outside of things again. Spoke to Kenny Smith and Tony Frazer, promised work. Didn't read, too tired. Coolings cellar, the Old Ship Inn. Bought a wok and a carafe with my Debenhams card, a gift from student Minh over a year ago.

Bukowski's 'Women' goes on and on like an Icelandic saga, willing it to end.

No post but birthday cards and presents. Waiting for tomorrow evening.