Sometimes, there is this longing for England in me. For something English I have never touched. It’s a phantasy of a cottage with a big armchair by a fireplace in a small room with old books and wallpaper by William Morris, and a neat kitchen with two black-and-white cats, and a rosebush by the door and a garden where soon you would find the first snowdrops. And then I am thinking that snowdrops may be the only flowers I shall see this year in England and by the time the gardens are in flower, I might have left.