“This is so cool,” Seamus says. His “cool” ricochets off the smooth concrete walls of the pipe.[12] “Cool... cool.”
A few yards away, I collect sticks for the kindling[13] I need to make tonight’s fire. The electricity will flick off[14] soon, as it does most days.
I had an e-mail today from a former colleague at the international news agency I once worked for in France. She’s now the head of a news bureau[15] in Asia. “My flat is in a modern Western-style building with a gym, a pool, and a shop,” she writes. “I have a housing allowance so it’s all free.”[16]
I love getting e-mails from my friends. Sasha, a speech and drama teacher, tells of toy libraries and her son’s Wii[17] games in rural middle England. Louise, a freelance[18] editor, writes of buying a flat in London and blogging in Spain. Emma, who sat next to me in many lectures at university, fills me in[19] on a recent holiday she took in Venice with her infant daughter. “I couldn’t remember how to say ‘crawl’ in Italian,” she laughs.
My friends’ missives[20] are fascinating windows into lives that I can’t help feeling might easily have been my own. Occasionally though, those e-mails can send me spiraling into self-doubt.
My 6-year-old son knows how to make a spinning top with a ripe loquat fruit and a toothpick.[21] But will he miss having a Wii game? If I’d persuaded my Zimbabwean husband to move with me to Paris, would we now be taking minibreaks in sunny European cities?
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