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Trying to do a lot today and managing a rather good load, I'm now sitting on my bed at my parents, surrounded by clothes of all sorts, many a cable, papers that range from receipts to bank statements and from client documents to the Tate fall schedule, my very old teddy, books and agendas, the wireless router and modem packs, a brand new box of cigarettes, CDs, my company's stamp, pens and keys, my phone, a chestnut my father brought me and myriad notes on as many papers. There's just enough room left to sit down.

It dawns upon me that a year ago things weren't much different. It was the same apartment, the same bed, with a similar selection of stuff around me and just a bit more space for myself. I needed a printer and I still need one now, except only to be taken out of its box and installed some day, its ink changed. I had roses around me and the orange tree as well. I was wearing the same clothes. I was on the verge of a whole new life, having quit my job and having fallen in love again, and about to leave to Italy, and then London.

What changed in a year? My foot works better with no plaster on, which may explain why chocolates and flowers arrive no more. I've got no studio in Bucharest but share a flat in London. I've got a business partner, ideas for new businesses, more clients, opportunities and speaking engagements. More decisions to make. More friends, more venues to check out, thus more fun. It must be all due to the orange tree changing from finally blooming to finally bearing fruit.