Everyone says the same thing: Bet you’re glad to be home. It’s easier to just smile and agree, ideally nodding the head vigorously.

And of course, I am – in a way. It’s a sign that all has progressed as it should and, literally, step by step, each day strengthens the knitting-together knee.

A nurse has come daily to the house to give the clot-busting stomach injections but there is only one day more of those.

The physio comes twice a week but often her surface gentle massages of my knee leave me in some pain later. It will all help me back into the car though and less dependent on the extraordinary kindness of friends and neighbours.

So, all is on course as it should be. The COPD sadly can never be cured, merely worsen, but I’m hoping it may return to its abnormal normal as the stifling heat fades into Autumn mellowness.

And it is a pleasure to be surrounded by my books again and all the familiar possessions gathered over the years.

Yet, yet…. waves of melancholia threaten to drown me if I allow them to.

After the bustle of the clinic there is too much silence, too much emptiness in the rooms that increasingly feel a stage setting rather than a home.

A home, rather than a house, needs life and laughter to be such. For too long there has been little of either as I am too weary to instigate it.

César too has come home from his many weeks in kennels disgruntled, even mildly depressed, to be back with the panting, rather wrecked woman who often simply sits and stares at the horizon when not living life second hand through her computer.

After glorious days playing in the company of his own kind, here he is, like his mistress, alone again…naturally.

He shows his displeasure by refusing to come in for the night. Cajoling, starving, sending for Miriam, have all failed and the other night I left him out in his closed compound.

I have no idea what tonight will bring or if he’ll deem my period of punishment is now over.

As I write I hear a strange intermittent knocking sound in the kitchen and immediately think the mice have returned for a winter berth…and birth.

There is no evidence anywhere but I’m now unsettled. Earlier, Alistair, who has kept the parc in superb condition during my absence, tells me there’s a hornet’s nest inside a hollow beam in my mini-stable/pig house.

The fruit on the trees is all worm-ridden this year and my weeping willow is visibly distressed after the canicules when 39 and 40 degrees heat lay heavy day after day.

Drought and subsequent settlement have opened the old familiar cracks in a wall or two and there’s a couple of new spider cracks elsewhere.

I am suddenly, morosely, overwhelmed by the responsibility of all this and the knowledge that things have to be fixed, have to be destroyed, have to be hacked back to keep this surface idyll intact.

I never wanted such responsibility in my life – never wanted to own a house; never wanted anything that would impinge on my freedom.

Who’d have bloody thought it? I say out loud, startling the dog into anticipation that someone was coming up the drive.

He slumps back with a groan when it’s apparent that no-one is arriving to break up the monotony.

Now, back in rehab I could take a stroll up the corridor and wonder about the lives of all I saw in their open rooms. I could gaze down on the courtyard and see staff taking a cigarette break and hear their curses and laughter as they discussed the day.

Absolutely nothing was my responsibility except healing. Meals, medication, blood checks, all taken care of by others.

Fears in the night? Press a bell and within minutes the soft footsteps of a night aide would trigger the lights outside our doors. Don’t be frightened; no need to worry; everything is fine.

With such soothing words worries disappeared and all was well with the world.

I even grew brave enough to watch a couple of violent thunderstorms through my windows without fear of being left without electricity. Not my problem.

There is one due here tonight and I pray it will merely dance around us on its way to crash and rage elsewhere.

The plain truth is I’m sick of being the adult around here. I’ve had enough of sorting out problems. Enough of wondering how little basic maintenance I can afford this year and get away with.

Enough of being the one who has to make all the decisions when I haven’t a clue what the questions are, never mind the answers.

I just want to press a buzzer on everything in my life and have someone glide in serenely to say – no worries, all will be fine.

I’ve become institutionalised, haven’t I? God, that happened quick.

Time to get a grip – again.

Like it or lump I am the adult here – the cavalry isn’t coming over the hill. Anyway, I always played the Indian.

So, no choice. Repeat after me: Upwards and onwards!