Do you remember how in that beautiful story of Ray Bradbury's they made dandelion wine, so that in winter, when it's dark and cold, you could open a bottle of golden stuff, which was just like summer on the tongue? Dandelion wine. Summer catched and preserved. How I wish that I had a shelf of bottles in the cellar where I could keep my dearest memories, so that one day, when I need them, they were all there, just reach out and open the bottle and savour... It bothers me a lot, because I think that I'm starting to forget. That year 2005, it meant so much for me, it was so utterly important, every day, every miracle that it brought, but now, as I grow older, I feel the memories slipping through my fingers and fading away... And I don't want them to. They are so subtle, based on emotion, backed by no real evidence but an old and shabby notepad where I'd put an occasional note, and a few pictures, which could have been much better and much more numerous if only I had bothered to take pains... at that particalar time I was sure that taking a picture was the least decent thing you could do when come to face something extraordinary - why waste time on a camera when you have to take it all in through your eyes, ear, smell, taste, touch and soul? So that's all I can really rely on now - the memory of my eyes, ear, smell, taste and touch. The memory of my soul.

So this is, basically, what this diary is (or rather, is going to be) about: a shelf in the cellar, which I'd like to fill gradually up with bottles, one by one, till they are all there - my memories of Great Britain.