Amid post-doc application forms, nappies, books, playdoh marathons, and mountains of clothes stoically waiting to be ironed, in a house full of newly founded girly anima and childish exuberance, the thought that has been occupying the mind is another house: an empty house. A house full of memories of long summer holidays, of laughter and occasionally of tears. As it awaits its refurbishment, it very often sends messages-reminders through the Ionian Sea to come soon and occupy it again. This is its "before", or to be more accurate, its current state: dusty, decadent, in need of architectural TLC from its descendants. It is a house "interrupted" (as the late Derrida would have it). So, it will resume in all its glory. Shortly.
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