Sitting on the balcony overlooking the Darwin waterfront on the last day of our stay and I feel like something is missing. The tide is out and I am one of those old boats left stranded in the mud, listless with nowhere to go.

Though I just had the most wonderful home cooked curry with local fish, I feel like I should be down by the docks in that fish and chips shop that opens until late, the only place in the area that does. I want to sit on a table and watch the boats go by, the fishing vessels depart for the night catch.

There is nothing on television, which is a pity because I want to share a show with the family instead of each of us absorbed in our own device. The couch is too small for more than two.

I am restless and unhappy because the holiday is coming to an end and I am scared to fly. The anxiety is back, the flight in wasn’t perfect enough after such a long wait to take to the skies again. I want to escape the fear or the scream it out. Neither is an option.

Alternatively, I would be happy to do nothing and just sit and relax, to drift into a tropical torpor.

To escape from me.