Considering I've written in my diary every night for the past 135 days up until I arrived home, it seems strange to have left writing this last blog until today: five days after landing at terminal five.

135 days of tents, hostels, buses, cars, trucks, rangers, vans, Africans, Aboriginals, Aussies, Kiwis, Maoris, Yanks, Canadians, family, friends, foes, kwacha, shillings, dollars, rand, lions, monkeys, mosquitoes, cockroaches, and thieves on scooters.

I got my welcome party: Mum and Dad with a banner at the arrivals gate and a set of big smiles. I didn't sleep during the flight, mainly due to the last moron of my trip being the bloke in front who reclined his seat fully even though he had the emergency exit seat. No tears as I saw the morning skyline of London, landed, collected my backpack and two recently accumulated bags from the conveyor belt for the last time, or even as I saw Mum and Dad. I thought I'd be bawling like some cheap labour in an onion factory. A sign I was ready to do more travelling?

Carted my bag onto the shuttle one last time, only this time I had manicured nails and a dress - not the usual backpacker style. Three hours on the road chatting to Mum and Dad about the trip trying unsuccessfully to cram everything into those few hours of motorway. I hope there's plenty still left to tell if they're still okay to listen.

I recognised my room: no lodgers had moved in, no teddies moved out - even the traffic cone I stole in my last year at uni still resides at number 24. I unpacked my bag, unloaded my many new t-shirts from every country, the glass pumpkin that survived all the way from Boston market, and the camera that's lasted 4800 pictures.

Thirty hours after that final backpacker's awakening in downtown Boston I finally lay down in my bed, my old double bed with clean sheets, clean cushions, and even my old lamb teddy. No time to reflect on what's happened between the last time I'd lay my head on that pillow and then, sleep beckoned me far too quickly.

I've been home for five days now; I've seen my brothers, the dogs, Gran, Nana, aunties and uncles, cousins, and it doesn't seem like I've changed one bit. X-Factor is still capturing the nation's attention, dole dossers are still drinking Carling as they walk the streets on a Sunday evening, and I'm still none the wiser as to what my part is in this old place.

At least I've done something whilst figuring it out - did I mention I travelled the world?