It's almost midnight: Sean has not long woken up, yet again, and is being suckled back to sleep by Nur, while Angus is hunkered beneath his duvet in a room that smells of fresh blue paint. I am sitting at the cheap old bureau that used to belong to mum and dad, wondering what to write, knowing that I have to write, impelled to drive my fingers thither and yon across the keyboard, all the while reflecting on the fractured four weeks I have had at home.
My holidays are almost invariably crap. I will except last year, which I spent reading books on the top floor balcony of a villa overlooking the Marmara, getting pissed on raki. It's generally just a bad combination of circumstances. This year, there has been the worrying lack of money to, er, worry about, as well as having little Sean to look after. I don't quite resent it, yet I feel as if I have done absolutely nothing for one twelfth of the year. I can't help but feel sorry for Angus - we have no cash to go anywhere and do anything - but also for Nur too, for the same reasons. We end up staying at home, bickering over that most stupid of things, cash.
I would love to do some studying, but when? When I try to, it seems that there is always some other demand on my attention.