An update: I have just this morning gratefully, if temporarily, left the noise and grime of backpackers hostels for the comparative luxury of an apartment in central London. My cousin, who resides here left for an Australian Christmas and has charitably offered me the use of his lodgings while he's gone.
I've only been away two weeks but I can't tell you how nice it is to have my own kitchen, my own room again. For there to be peace and quiet. To not have a gaggle of Italians yelling excitedly at each other behind me, or to be sharing a room with a group of Russians who hang their underwear from each bedpost bed like soiled flags.
I'll be here for the next two weeks and I have the internet here so during that time I'll probably be on here quite a bit.
My trip so far has been fantastic. It's the incredible sense of freedom I love the most. I've been touring the UK as a sort of extended limbering up process and then I'll be starting the Europe part of my trip soon after Christmas (I leave on the 28th), before coming back to live in London or possibly Brighton and travelling during the northern hemisphere's Summer and then going home.
The thing that has struck me is the way routine robs you of time. How it makes the weeks slip by with little to distinguish one from the other and so the passage of time quickens. My two weeks abroad feel like the equivalent of well over a month back at home in a work routine.