Monday, August 10


Back to reality. Left Sicily a long time ago, flying to Milan Malpensa, which is probably the worst airport in the world. From there I went to a small village in Southern France, trying not to think about work or love or life in general. My mother, who picked me up from the station, didn’t recognise me at first. She said: ‘I saw this trendy looking woman, and only after a few seconds did I realise it was my child!’
I told her I dressed trendy on pupose, to make sure she would recognise me. We got in the car and drove to her village, about an hour from the nearest town. I was quite happy to leave civilisation behind. She told me that the bakery would drive by on Tuesday, selling pastries and biscuits and freshly baked croissants.
We did not need to go shopping since there was salad in the garden, and the neighbour had already given her courgette. Being in France meant sleeping and eating, and waiting for the bakery to show up at the door.