It’s our final weekend here in Baldock and the family descended. There have been up to twenty people at various times in my parents’ house. Fun and chaos reign in fairly equal proportions. Sunday afternoon and most people have headed off so we are now a mere nine, the kids are all wild and over-excited, and we really need to starting thinking about packing for heading back west tomorrow. 
I know it barely compares with world hunger and the global credit crunch, but I am filled with dilemma over whether to pack my walking boots or not. OK, let’s get real; I wear my boots most days in England, I took them to Argentina before, and I never wore them once. Argentina has three categories of terrain as far as I can make out. One is concrete and requires trainers, the second requires major mountaineering and a better grade of boots than these, and the third is vast prairies of arable land without any footpaths, and is sprayed with toxic chemicals from the air. So realistically I’m probably never going to wear my walking boots in Argentina. And heaven knows that I surely need the space in my rucksack. And yet, to leave them behind feels like I’m abandoning part of my person here, and somehow making a statement that I might never really be at home in Argentina. Dare I do this?