Carrot juice

I pour the last drop of coffee into my tiny cup, in preparation for a night of major academic endeavours, while outside it gets dark and cold. Marc's electric heater is again doing its best in the futile fight against the large, thin windows and I take comfort in the idea that someone might read this and create a mental connection between our lives that otherwise run parallel without touching.

[A small, but significant correction to the last entry: my tent-dwelling neighbours are not Bedouin, but Gypsies, which, although it makes little difference to me, is quite something else: I don't think Gypsies are seen with much respect anywhere in the world, but here, they constitute a class far below that of the Bedu... in fact, near the very bottom of society, maybe even below the Philippine housemaids.]