Love can hijack your otherwise normal life with only a rusty bent teaspoon and a packet of clothes pegs - the wooden ones that start out a pleasing pine colour and end up a slimy grey-green from the weather. Love can drive you barmy with its relentless weeks of monotony that prepares you for throwing it all in and getting a real life, and then it flattens all your objections with a broadside of pure bliss so iridescent that you are blinded for days and your mind is invincible in the afterglow. I betrayed my great love the other week for a few days, as I sulked about the lack of a visa and in a fit of pique I threatened my mind with going home and starting another undergraduate course in the history of another country, one that would give me a visa. I even contemplated, god forbid, Australian history. But you can’t rage against what is in your blood, what is hard-wired into your brain, what brings you your greatest joy. And so I am stuck with being irretrievably in love with Britain, ...