Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm

Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm
Maghreb Moroccan Restaurant, Islington

After arriving in Angel earlier, I was so sure I was lost. The bars and restaurants had thinned out, and so convinced I turned back on myself and headed back the way I came. About halfway back down the road, I found I had been right all along.

It was San's last night in town, before exchanging London for the suburbs of Hiroshima. She'd booked a table for 8pm in this Moroccan restaurant, and -- being me -- I was lost. All San had told me was what street it was on, and a couple of bars I knew that it was past. Having walked the length of Upper Street perhaps twice, and starting to panic as I was going to be late, I ended up texting AQA for the house number of the restaurant, after texts to San had proved fruitless. She would tell me "it's near the town hall" which assumed I knew where the town hall was, or could identify which building it was on sight, and would be able to judge how "near" it was.

It was when I got my AQA text reply I discovered I was practically at the door of the restaurant before I had turned around. And although this post starts with the paragraph from my paper journal, written in the restaurant shortly after I got there, I was still the first one to arrive. Altogether, it was a fine send-off for San -- about 17 people turned up (more than she'd even booked for) and everyone had a good time, for me it was both nice and a little strange to see some of her friends I hadn't seen in months or years. Some of her older friends now seem to consider me as more their friend in my own right than just San's old ex boyfriend. Probably because I refuse to go away. I spent most of the night talking and laughing with San's younger sister, whom I consider almost like my own adopted sister these days.

Eventually the evening came to an end, and the waiters brought out a cake that one of San's half-sisters had left. It was then that San started to cry, and she more or less continued to cry on and off until I left her late the next morning. She was crying because she was pleased her friends had come to see her off, but also I think because she was a little scared and it had only just started to sink in she was really going.

We walked home like we've done so many times before -- I didn't want to mention anything about it being a long time before we will again, if we ever do -- fighting against a strong headwind, blowing grit in our eyes. Tired from either a day in work in my case, or a late, drunken night the night before in San's we both went to bed (yes, separately) fairly soon after we got in. San had yet to start packing, with just over 12 hours to go before her taxi would be arriving for her. I questioned whether she should pack first and then sleep, but San opted to sleep first and then pack.

The next morning, when San eventually got up after choosing "snooze" about five times, I couldn't sleep in. It would be the last time I'd see San for a while, and I wasn't going to the airport with her. I had planned to go with her, even at the expense of the last hockey game of the season, but in the end Mother's Day intervened and I was required to spend the majority of the day at home. Realising that I could sleep any time, I got up to watch San pack and re-pack and re-pack again, in between her bouts of tears.

After an hour or so, her uncle turned up with something for San to sign -- I don't recall what, and I decided rather than supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum, I'd leave her to it for a short while and read my philosophy book. But before long, I couldn't concentrate and actually got dressed instead, to do exactly as I said: supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum.

Shortly before I left around midday, San had got her suitcase to weigh as close to 20kg as possible. 20 kilos might be plenty if you're going on holiday, but it doesn't leave you a lot of room if you need to pack for a year. I think she settled for 22kg in the end.

I jokingly asked San if she would walk me to the bus stop, since she was still in her PJs. But she walked me out onto the balcony instead, we hugged goodbye -- refusing to look each other in the eye, so I wouldn't see her crying -- and I told her I'd see her soon. As I started off down the road, she called out goodbye to me, in a voice choked with tears.

I got a text message from her this morning as she changed planes in Hong Kong. By now, she will be in Japan. Probably complaining she has nothing to wear...