…and in the minicab on the way to Stansted the darkness is pierced with streetlights and other yellow dots and I'm sitting in the back after only an hour's sleep and 10cc's I'm Not In Love is on the radio, and the middle eight suddenly sounds like the soundtrack from Bladerunner, and I remember the number of times I sat in the car with Brooke driving down avenues to Pisa in the fading light and saying it was just like the end of that film, when Deckard and the replicant girl Rachel drive off into the sunset with Gatt's words echoing in their ears.

"It's too bad she won't live," he says, "but then again, who does?"

At the airport I'm so fried I feel like someone's taken a Taser to me while I slept, and I was just so tired I didn't notice. So this drive to Stansted, getting out of the minicab into the snow and grabbing my bags from the boot and wandering into the light, slapping my stuff on the conveyor belt and chatting with the Ryanair bloke and realising that this might be the last time in a while when a set of simple enquiries would go so easily and smoothly, was a bit of a moment of realisation.

Of course, there have been many. As Spock says in one of the later, but strangely better Trek movies The Undiscovered Country: "History is replete with turning points." Spock always had that edge. And this history, bearing in mind it's far from over, is handing them to me like they're going out of style. The day before I returned to Italy to start another, very different adventure, I feel like the fictional bridegroom in every sitcom or drama – nervous as fuck and scared stupid. Is this the right decision? And, really, is this the time to be debating it? So I'm locked into this zapped-out journey, this big steel tube full of tired people and jet fuel, because I know in my heart that to give this a go, to try to make a better life, a life filled more with art than work, more with love than hate or simple disinterestedness, cannot be the wrong thing to do.

So this is the last blog. Much has changed since I started this insane set of rambling monologues some seven months ago, and much has remained as it was. The Locusts of Doom still buzz around my head like yellow cartoon stars. Barga is still much as it was, and after going back there it seems Palmers Green, where I used to live, hasn't changed a heck of a lot either. Some shops have shut, some have opened.
When I went to see Bech and Michelle at De Niro's café in PG I asked what had been going on since I left, and Michelle struggled to think of anything off the top of her head to tell me. At this point I sat in the café and thought 'good lord, I've filed something like 35,000 words about all the things that have happened to me since I last saw you half a year ago'. So what does that mean? That my life's been eventful? Or does it just mean that I've written a lot of crap about stuff most people take for granted? Probably more of the latter than the former, but there's no denying there's been plenty to write about, from Petanque to drunken evenings, from wine and olives to love affairs. I guess that's more than I'd ever have had in PG.

I promised in the last blog that I'd do Thoughts and Regrets as well as Thankyous and Fuckyous, so I'll give it a go. I'll start, though, with a few things that never went into the blogs, kind of an outtakes thing, like at the end of Burt Reynolds movies except less funny…

I remember in the summer lying in my flat on my sofa with the smell of perfume and cigarettes mingled together coming up from the bar below, filtering in through the door and in from the window while people chatted and drank outside at the tables. At the time, I thought I'd never fit in here, never learn the language, and the book looked like an impossible dream that would never be completed.

I wrote the following in August:

"Ahhh you know the thing that really gets me? The thing I really really miss? It's the thing above all others because it simultaneously reminds me of all my friends, of years of continuity, of Uni, of Anne, of summer and winter, about four different homes, of drugs, drink and days off, of Sundays lazing around with nothing to do except drink tea, eat chocolate and watch telly, of writing essays, of starting out in a press office and of everything in between.

Not every day but sometimes, across the alley from me, through the window of a house, I can hear the TV, and on the TV is Star Trek: Voyager. When I hear the theme music it pulls at my heartstrings, and when I hear the occupants whistling the theme tune, badly, like we all did, for a second I'm somewhere else. It's a little bit of magic."

I still miss Voyager and Next Generation, and when I was round at Beard and Bridgette's house for Xmas day I had a cry over an episode – partly because it was a good one that jerked the tear ducts and partly because I'd missed it, and I'd missed the people I was in the room with so much. But, like Picard realised in the last ever episode of Next Generation, all good things…

Now, it's important to know the spin on that, otherwise it looks like I'm being down about stuff. All good things may well have to come to an end, but they can easily come to an end because something else good needs to happen in their place. And in between good things, there are often times of upheaval and unhappiness. At the very least there are usually refuse disposal sites of uncertainty and fear. So my current vacillatory wanderings in the hinterlands of doubt are, in fact, completely normal. Or so I'm telling myself.

So, what of Thoughts and Regrets? I suppose I have no idea what I meant by the Thoughts thing, as I've already rambled on enough in these pages, in my opinion. But what would they be if they existed? They'd be things like:

It was too easy to make stereotypes of Italians rather than to look at people as Barghigiani, but also that stereotypes have grains of truth in them that, if you can look at them in a fresher way, can help you to see what kind of culture you're in. Perhaps we British should look at ours without getting too upset too, sometimes.

Getting drunk all the time is something I used to do back in England, and at the beginning of the blogs I bemoaned the Italians' (there you go again) reluctance to do this just because booze was available. Now I admire their restraint and their ability to put drink in its proper place – subservient to fun, not the sole route to it.

Living in London for ten years and coming from the suburbs I had no clue about 'the country' and why on earth people would want to spend their time tilling the land and stuff. After a few months I began to expound on the wonders of working on the land and lauding the locals for their 'back to basics' lifestyle. Now there's a third view – though I'm sure there are many here who like the fact they have land and get by on it, it also means that a lot of people get by with very little, which is not a good thing.

Being the hero of my own story (thanks, Kaj) is all very well to say but has proved very hard, if not impossible to actually achieve. Though the Italians do seem to either love life (a stereotype) or at least have a culture that says you should love life (closer to the truth), it's still taking time to rub off on me. I'm waiting to finish the book before I take some time out to just do stuff, take in the scenery, that sort of thing. As for loving life in a social way, there's still a lot to learn from people who sum up sociability, hospitality. They do it well.

Doing things even though you don't like the idea of them on the day is sometimes a good idea.

Italian television does not tell you all you need to know about Italy. But it is a cracking way to learn the language, without having people look at you like a retard all the time. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire in Italian helped me no end, as did Distretto di Polizia 3.

Speaking of this, On Learning Italian: do not come to a foreign country with no language expecting to pick it up in a trice. THIS WILL NOT HAPPEN. Also do not give up trying to learn a language formally, from books and stuff, once you have started speaking it with people. This is a bad idea because you still know next to nothing and will pick up all sorts of bad habits. Think of learning a language like learning a musical instrument – after a while you'll be able to do all sorts of things, but it's all too easy to play Leaving On A Jetplane again and again just because the crowd likes it, when you should be learning how to play Stairway to Heaven. Or something.

If you are going to try to write a book, don't worry if your first attempt gets to 28,000 words and then turns out to be a complete insane rambling mess. Don't despair. If your original idea has become clearer because of it, start again. Things will get better.

That's enough Thoughts – how about some Regrets?

I didn't get down to Rome or over to Verona or Venice. I should have, although I wasn't really here as a tourist so I don't feel really bad. Maybe visits to those great places would have added something to the book – who knows. But I wish I had, if only because everyone says "You didn't go to Rome?" in an incredulous voice. I did get to Florence, though.

I should have hung out with more Italian speakers for longer. For those I did hang out with who helped me, and those I didn't hang out with but still helped me see Thankyous.

I should have set myself a stricter schedule for working on the book, and I didn't. This worked for many times when I wanted to work and a little bit of guilt helped me with impetus. But there were many times when I knew I should have been working and I didn't because I'd decided I could just do it when I wanted. This was not always true.

Subsequent to that, I should never have put Civilisation 2 back on my computer. That was a wasted three weeks when I should have been working. I very nearly managed to remove computer games from my life for six months but failed. One great moment, however, was when I wiped Civ2 – I felt like I'd scored a huge victory over my natural apathy and escapism.

I wish I hadn't felt so hard-nosed about writing things in the blog just because I felt they needed to be in there. I really made Danielle angry with my reference to her in the blog, and looking back maybe I should have left the entire episode out. I feel, in my heart, like I did the right thing in putting everything in that I did, but I never meant blogs to hurt people and a few of them did, or pissed people off. It was never meant to do that.

I should have saved more money in my life for events such as this. If you intend to do things like this, for example dump your whole life and just go somewhere else to write some stupid book, save up some cash. I'm fiscally fucked, so don't make the same mistake I did.

I can't think of any more, and I guess that's a good thing. There ARE more, but I can't think of them. So maybe they don't prey on my mind, which can't be bad.

Thankyous and Fuckyous

Ahh, I've been waiting for this bit.

Fuck you to London for burning me out and being a smelly hole that I now can't believe I lived in without realising the true polluted horror that it is.

Fuck you to nearly all the schooling I had as a child for not making me a more confident artist. I can do things, such as write and take photographs, and I had to find these things myself. So Fuck you Aberdour, and Fuck you Wallington Grammar. You both sucked. And Fuck you too certain members of the staff in Middlesex University English department for saying I wrote like a journalist/didn't know what I was talking about/I'd never become an academic or would understand literature. You were wrong.

Fuck you to certain people over here in Italy who will remain nameless who have made Brooke's and Babbo's life and mine more difficult. Money is NOT everything, and one day, hopefully, you'll understand it.

You know, strangely, I can't think of any more Fuckyous.

Thank you to London for being a smelly old hole that made me want to leave. I couldn't have done it without you.

Thank you to my schooling for verifying that you can still be some of the things you want to be even though they don't think you can.

Thank you to everyone in Barga who put up with my language (lack of skills and profanity), played petanque with me, took me out to places just because I was there, made me dinner when I was hungry and lonely, helped me with the book, sat up with me until four talking shit about life in general and a book no one understands, listened to my bad renditions of songs on the guitar, turned up to my birthday and made me really happy, waited for sometimes seemingly forever while I tried to explain things, and pointed out that I might be slightly awry about things I was saying about them, helped me sort things out I thought might be impossible and generally treated me with a lightness of touch and friendliness that I felt I had no right to expect. I'm not going to name names because if you do that you always forget people and that would be awful. I feel you know who you are, and I'm glad I'm back with you.

Thank you to all my friends in England for making both my Going Away situations easier to bear, for listening to me when I was down, for keeping in contact, for coming over to see me in the pouring rain just because it was me (something I just didn't understand), for giving me feedback on the book, for saying they were sure it was going to work, for putting me (and Brooke) up over Xmas and New Year and making the time so fantastic, and generally for being themselves. You're all stars, every one of you, even the ones I ballsed up trying to see when I was back – don't take it the wrong way; I'll visit again really soon.

Thank you Brooke, for changing my life in a way I didn't realise would happen.

And finally, Thank you to Babbo and La Padrona, for everything else, and for making it possible and fun. You're diamonds. Sometimes in the rough, granted, but…

This has been an awesome time, and I've hugely enjoyed it. I've also had a terrible time, occasionally, but I blame the Locusts. There've been ups and downs, but where would life be without those?

What Gatt, the detective in Bladerunner whose words ring in Deckard's ears as he's trying to escape, what Gatt was trying to say was that no one lives forever, and that you have to use the time allotted to live, to find things that make your life more interesting, or just… more. His deal with Deckard was that running away with Rachel was the right thing to do, to just go, to live while you can, no matter how many problems there might be, no matter how, ultimately, doomed to oblivion we all are.

I said I'd run out of Thoughts, but looking back over this blog, it's full of them, so I haven't done so badly. Before Vince left to back to England for Xmas, he told me that I should live by a quote that Gerun, his wife, told him. I can't remember it all, it's a three-line thing, but two of the lines are: "Dance like there's no one else in the room, and love like you've never been hurt."

I'm adept, after a few grappas, at the first. Now I just have to see how close to the second I can get. I know I can't really, truly get there. But trying's got to be worth a few gold stars on the classroom board of life, somewhere along the line.

Take care all