Two years on, still house-sitting, still loving it. ‘Dolphins!’ comes the call from the beach. This month we’re perched between two bodies of water; such dynamism is alluring. In a roar of wind the estuary turns to ink. So, too, is the idea of home: vegetables we shepherd from seed to plate; trees we watch grow; rooms with our loved objects, clothing in drawers, real desks … sun again: a stripe of milky jade sweeps the bay …  friends who know where to find us.

We’re perfectly okay ‘in the moment’, as long as we rest there. It’s the mind that races about and causes panic: what if we miss out on this or that house? what if the market gets away on us? can we live in a hut in the north? do we really belong in the south? will our friends forget us? why can’t we decide? A gannet glides past the window, gleaming wings spanner-tight. Still, we talk to the bank. The real estate agents. We’re keeping a finger to the wind. The pohutukawa shakes its head as shadows race ashore and gulls lift and cry.