Everyday domestic life when stripped of all the little distractions - the telephone calls, the trips to the supermarket, the evening news, walking the dogs across the bridge - is pretty empty. It consists mainly of waiting. For the sky to clear, for something to happen, for dinner, for bed. Any fool, as Chekhov said somewhere, can deal with a crisis - it's day-to-day living that wears us out.
All those past jobs, more than fifty, in more than a dozen countries, all those big challenges and small triumphs, those people I met, those things I saw, are distant memories now. Some friends suggested I write a book about them. Un livre sur rien ?
... some days the memories won't leave me alone.
