I genuinely, honestly, hand-on-heart thought that I wouldn’t have a summer holiday this year. First world problems, I know, but this time last year I was in Japan, retro game shopping with my best friend and getting told I was kawaii. I even came back with quite a lot of money to spare… but this year I started the summer period on the breadline, overdrawn for the first time in a while and with no sign of having enough money for food, never mind any sort of holiday.

In the end I was beginning to become resigned to the fact that I’d be spending the rest of August vegetating in my flat and maybe completing the DLR thing that I finally managed to start this week.

And then my grandfather gave every one of his grandchildren £1,000 and I booked a holiday with the speed of Billy Whizz.

We are going to York. My wife has never been.

York has mixed memories for me. I once went on a rainy camp with a group (that I helped to organise) that would have been better if it had stopped raining for any amount of time. As a very young child my parents took me and I walked along the Roman walls. I remember going to JORVIK and buying some amber for my crush (which she got, anonymously). I’ve been to the sweet shop on Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate. It’s quite a way away, but I do like York. I have my favourite places, of course – Bath, Nottingham, here in London – but I like it.

I’m trying not to let it freak me out.

Last time I was in York I was in a relationship with Catherine. We spent a week there (quite a pleasant week, truth be told) and did quite a few of the things I’m intending to do this weekend with my wife. I made sure, when I was booking, to avoid staying in the same hotel I’ve had sex in. My mental Rolodex flicked through all the attractive people I’ve met from Yorkshire in Woodcraft and beyond. My young raver friend now lives there, even.

It’s difficult, in what has been a nervous and uncertain summer for me, to put all of this behind me. Once again, I’m going to a place which reminds me of past loves and the occasional crushing failure. It has been more than a decade since I last went that far North, and although this may well scratch the wanderlust itch that burns within, whether or not I can genuinely enjoy myself to the fullest very much remains conjecture at this point.

Or maybe I just need to get laid. That’d help.