We had the first rain of the season in the city today. I sat gloomily at the window, wrapped in a blanket, thinking of soup.
At the first hint of being housebound for a season I am already worrying. Are we in the right place? I’m thinking of Amsterdam, trotting through the cold streets, into the warm smokey music, back out to the cold; of running around and around the hill in Malmo to keep warm while the boys set up the hookah; of sitting in Thomas’s flat wearing my scarf, two sweaters and three pairs of the Lad’s socks and being read everything from Milne to Milton.
Did the pioneers feel this way? The snow starts falling, you’re stuck in your little log cabin for weeks, and you start to think Maybe we ought to have built four feet to the right?
I wonder what winter is like in Paris.
The rain stops. My feet warm up. I paste yet another photo of the Eiffel Tower over the kitchen sink and — ever the conscientious housewife — start rummaging through the take-out menus, preparing to order dinner for our little family of two.
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