And when I held this sigh up and examined it in the harsh light of the cabin, I saw it had many qualities. A pinch of sadness to be leaving behind a place full of discoveries and new relationships: 2006 had been the year, for example, in which I began to write, and in which I stumbled across many people who have since become close friends. There was, too, a smidgen of fatigue: many of my work plans had been frustrated by the political unrest leading up to the break. But there was also, if I am honest, just the smallest hint of relief. For a person who likes to be alone, to curl up silently and read, to walk through deserted parks and down echoing cobbled streets, Bangladesh can, just occasionally, be a challenge. Just as for someone who is by nature orderly, likes to plan, who may be called fastidious and even fussy (and that's just by his friends), the place is, you might think, an unlikely long-term partner. I've often thought of my relationship with Bangladesh as an arranged marriage. Flung together by others, we initially circled warily round each other, wondering how on earth we would learn to co-exist.

But that was then. Back in the present, the sigh soon subsided, drowned out by a growing excitement and anticipation. There was much to look forward to in this two-month break. The chance, first of all, to sleep for about eight days, but then a great deal besides.

And so it has proved. Uninterrupted time alone with my wife, intimate conversations with old friends, the warmth of the family home around Christmas. I've enjoyed the unfamiliar sights of spidery frost glittering on the ground, and the long-lost feel of the raw air of winter, and the comfort of stepping out of the cold into a house warm as freshly-baked bread, as opposed to the more usual Dhaka feeling of stepping out of a sauna into an oven. The bare trees clawing the air above the old Victorian streets, the colourful delicatessens and muggy pubs, and the steam rising off the coffee as I sit in my favourite café in the gathering dusk.

And in the evenings, I've taken advantage of the huge array of entertainment on offer here in the vibrant city where I live. I've laughed in comedy shows, watched films from half a dozen countries and gazed up at a small stage where a woman who sang like a deity stood in the spotlight, holding the audience with the power of her voice and the tumbling chords of her guitar.

Meanwhile, on the home front, I've reintroduced myself, after a year of being pampered, to such esoteric gadgets as a washing machine and an iron, and rediscovered the pleasures of shopping, the therapeutic qualities of washing the dishes and, yes, even doing the cleaning. In this banal, unruffled way, over thirty days have already slipped by in a pleasant haze.

A complete escape, you might think; a period of refuge from this faraway country I've been hurled into a relationship with. But if I stop still at any moment, on any day, there's another faint noise in the background: a constant hum. At first I think it's just the blood singing in my ears, but when I listen more closely, I realise it's something else entirely. It's the lingering echo of Bangladesh, the memory of the energy, drive and warmth of the place.

It would be difficult to forget even if I tried - there are constant reminders around me. When I make myself a cup of tea, I reach most naturally for the big green and red mug emblazoned with the country's name, presented to me on one of my earliest visits. I then make for the papasan chair bought in Rajshahi, where I relax and turn the pages of a new book set in the East End of London, teeming with Bangladeshi characters. Or perhaps I sit at my laptop and check emails or browse news websites most of which take me back to Dhaka. On my study walls there are photos of rickshaws in the morning mist and of ships being broken in the half-light of dawn down in Chittagong, and in other rooms there are earthenware pots, candle holders, carved tables, and even a pair of tabla drums, all taking me back to that other world. Besides, over the last four weeks, of the ten or so times in which I've been out to dinner in restaurants or other people's homes, about eight involved Bangladeshi friends, who, incidentally, always amaze me by the way they seem to discover common acquaintances or even relatives within three seconds of meeting each other.

And to top it all, a curious new feeling arose the other day in the most unassuming of locations. While getting my hair cut, the young woman washing my hair asked if I'd like a head massage. I said yes, but should have known better: it's been a while since I've had such a lack-lustre experience as if she was tickling my head with a feather duster. A far cry from the masterly attentions of Rahman back in Gulshan who kneads my head like an expert baker. It was at that moment that I realised I had begun to miss the place, this country which has given me so much. I caught myself thinking, for the first time, "I'm going home soon."

And if I feel this way, who knows what the hundreds of thousands of Bangladeshis scattered across the world must be thinking. It all goes to prove that life may take you out of Bangladesh, but nothing can take Bangladesh out of you.

Andrew Morris is an educational consultant in Bangladesh currently in Bristol. He will be back in February.