I haven't written anything for days because we've been working from dawn to dusk getting the ground prepared, and then getting the crops in. By the time i get to bed, I'm so tired I fall asleep straight away, so I can't get anything written here.

Now I've been told - if I can understand what they have said and gestured to me - that most of the men (including me) are leaving first thing tomorrow morning on a long expedition. If I've got it right, we're going to a big annual meeting-cum-roundup of livestock, somewhere down south.

If I get the chance, I'll describe the journey.

Something odd happened last night. I woke in the very early hours, well before dawn, conscious that I had been sent again. I seemed to be somewhere dry, and reasonably comfortable, so I settled down to wait for daylight, to see where I'd ended up this time.

In fact, I must have fallen asleep again, because I woke to find Fou-el's son shaking me and indicating that it was time to get up and start work.

I seem to be in exactly the same world. Yet I am sure that I felt a sending. It was certainly what I've felt on the other occasions this has happened while I was awake: the same sense of vertigo, as though I were standing on the edge of a mile-high cliff, followed by bright flashing lights at the back of my eyes. I'm sure it wasn't a dream.

Can I have been sent to the same place and time? Am I stuck here for ever?

Only time, I suppose, will tell.

Work has been extremely hard the last few days, and I’ve been too tired in the evenings to write anything. I can only really type when it gets dark, as I don’t want to draw attention to my wristpad, and have to try to explain it (and probably face having to fight for it, and the head of this household is also headman of the village, and he and his wife have the bulk of the prestigious items – particularly jewellery). Fortunately, although it’s a lot warmer here than the last world I was in, it’s still cold enough for me to keep my sleeves rolled down in the day, and I don’t think anyone has noticed it.

The headman is a big, bulky bloke – and very fit, of course, with all the hard work around here. I certainly wouldn’t want to have to fight him. He’s about my height, but a couple of stones heavier, and about ten years older too – I’d guess he’s in his mid-thirties, although his face (like everyone else’s) is so weather-beaten I could be out by twenty years.

I’m still struggling with the language – I’m not even sure what his name is. The others call him something like Fou-el, but I suspect that’s a title rather than a name. Still, it’s what I call him too – he doesn’t seem to object. In my mind, though, I think of him as Phil.

I’m afraid it’s really hard to see what I’m doing – this small oil lamp (a wick, floating in a small dish of oil, actually) doesn’t really give enough light to see the small symbols on this touch-pad, so I think I’m going to have to stop now. Will try to write again tomorrow about the life of this community.