When I arrived home from Paris, I noticed that the green around the star fort had been mown, the cut grass left to dry. Last year the grass had been wrapped in black plastic and left in round bales, as high as an average adult man, among which teenagers stared into phones, moodily, like anyone else who has been surrendered to wary observation by institutions.

So much had passed since then, for myself, for those teenagers, for the country. A return to the old world, at first slowly, and then very quickly, so quickly, we could hardly catch our breath, eating out all the time, dancing at weddings and anniversary parties, taking trains or planes to other cities or countries. We were gluttons for experiences and sensations past, gorging ourselves into exhaustion.

Only it is definitely a new world, with the war in Ukraine and inflation and the ever-rising cost of electricity and gas. By now the Fear has set in, and everyone has run out of money, and we're all regarding what is promised a hard, wolfish winter with not a little trepidation.




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