‘At what exact point did you decide you weren’t going back to live in the UK?’ Richard asked.

What was the trigger huh?

Well, you know, it wasn’t when I got my fiftieth pile of clean clothes back from the laundry people.  It wasn’t when Alula went to play with our neighbour’s family. No, the trigger point came when John and I wondered into a shop in Ubud to look at a pair of Sulawese ancestral statues, carved from stone, that we’d seen in the window. About knee high, one was of a woman clutching her stone 38DDs and the other was a man holding his giant erect penis.

‘I can’t quite see these sitting on our doorstep back home, can you?’ I said to John.

They won’t be sitting on our doorstep here either because they cost 700,000,000 rupiah, which even when you take off five noughts is still a lot.

But it was whilst I was admiring those statues,  that I realised I would be the same as that statue, other than the 38DD part, if I tried to live in the UK again. I wouldn’t fit. I’d just sit there, perhaps not naked and perhaps not groping my boobs, but with a stony expression on my face,  staring at the rain, wishing I was back in Bali.