So it’s 22 years since Jim Henson died. Which also means that 22 years ago today, I was in Rome, InterRailing with a friend and only the very vaguest plan of where we wanted to go from one day to the next.

Which begs a question: when exactly did I turn into this fearful, twitchy homebody? I’ve always been nervy and socially awkward, sure, but now it seems like I hardly go anywhere or do anything at all. And it’s not only down to not being able to afford it (though that is usually the case, so you’d think the impetus to do something new would be stronger).

Take what I ended up doing over my 40th. I was originally looking at a week in Fuerteventura, shambling round the island with a camera and eating lots of lovely Canarian food. Instead I decided on three days in Paris and a schmancy dinner on my birthday, just because it was familiar and I don’t like flying. How pipe-and-slippers is that?

Filing this under “something must be done” for now…