There are occasions still where my old and new lives collide and leave me reeling; wondering if I have so lost touch with myself in France that I have changed out of all recognition.
I'm in Provence at a private 17th-century hunting lodge, high in the forest, which the rare mix of exquisite taste and old money has turned into a summerhouse of such beauty one would wish the whole world lived like this.
Or, to be honest, I lived like this. Forever and ever. Amen.
At dinner one night I sat next to a man who bemoaned his obsession with buying Grade A listed houses and castles; another night with an Argentinian polo player of dark beauty and international renown who flirted with me as gracefully as he turns his ponies in for the kill.
We drank champagne on the terrace as pinpricks of hidden lighting illuminated a garden designed on the architectural principles of formal French strictures.
Wisteria tunnels planted by an earlier owner are to be ripped up as apparently in the gardening world they are considered to be non-chic.
Inside my head, as this is discussed, I think of my two wisteria plants which are in full flow at Las Molieres and whose outshoots I defend against Alistair's rigorous pruning, so loath am I to kill the living tendrils.
And when the well-known, charming man spoke of his next Grade A building, my tongue slyly fingered the super-glued fake tooth I can't afford to properly replace.
I chided him and told him to get a grip on himself - and his chequebook.
I'm writing this at a long, marbled, mosaic table after a lunch barbecued by a cook, under a vine-draped stone arched arbour.
Before me, two pools - one cold; one permanently kept at 33 degrees. They meld into each other via a man-made weir.
Around them are lengths of pool furniture; the beds better than any I lie on at home. Huge antique jardinières house olive trees and magnolia.
Box hedges define the pleasure centre of the estate and in the distance I hear the thuck of tennis balls as other friends defy the heat and play on.
A helicopter has whisked away my polo player and some of the other guests.
Huge electronically-operated gates keep us safe and enclosed in this opulent, privileged world.
Sometimes we venture forth for a touch of unspoiled France; to hilltop villages almost vulgarly draped with Michelin starred restaurants.
In one, on a terrace overhanging the high Plateau de Vaucluse, my face warms, not with the sun, but with the casual, beautiful elegance of those around me. I purr like a contented, loved cat.
Oh my dears, I may be only 5hrs 40 minutes drive from Les Molieres but it is as if I've been transported to another, half-remembered life.
I do not, genuinely, feel envy. Thankfully that is a vice I have never embraced. Instead I feel grateful to be invited to be part, however briefly, of a life unburdened by mundane financial worries.
Throughout my life, whether by relationship, work, or friendship, I have had access to great houses and powerful people.
And I have learned that everything, however idyllic, comes with its own peculiar price. None of us escape; we just have very different problems.
So, it came as some surprise, indeed shock, when I found myself railroaded by my hostess (one of my dearest friends) and my son who was also staying here.
I was so proud that I had halved my cigarette consumption with the e-cig; confident that I was ready to talk of being lonely for the first time ever in Hicksville France; and open to all suggestions as to my future.
I got a little praise but a lot of disturbing analysis and when I protested was told I was "in denial" about myself.
They all want me "home". Or at least where life is, be it a townhouse in a French city or in one close to London where Pierce can come for Sunday lunch without having to book EasyJet and all its horrors.
They don't like my "shrunken" self; the woman who takes a week to post a letter; the fag addict; the woman who stares at ceilings and plans her funeral music and worries about dying alone in the night.
I thought I had made jokes about all of this. They have looked beyond the jokes and not taken them at face value.
Perhaps deep in myself I was hoping they would do so.
Yet, I feel myself recoiling; resenting their interference.
Writing this I have dumped the e-cig and smoked one fag after another. Because I can!
I'm on my third white wine. They're all splashing in the pool. I have become a truculent teenager.
Tomorrow we leave for home and away from paradise.
It's a different sort of paradise; one that many, many people would adore.
But it is one I control. However difficult I'm finding it.
And ultimately I will control the next stage of my life.
Bugger, I just wish I had some idea of what it should be.
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