One of the pluses of living here - or in Africa, for that matter - are all these industrial-strength drugs you can buy over the counter. Extra-strength and maximum-strength. Alka-Seltzer, for example. Can't get that in many places in the world. And all those wonderful over-the-top-strong allergy medicines. I have this mild case of hay fever, you see. Which actually brings into question these pastoral fantasies I have of laying down on a hill covered in blooming sunflowers, or walking through "fields where the yellow grass grows knee high". But I digress.

Nyquil and Dayquil. The Ying and Yang of cough medicine. Such a beautiful concept. If you have a cold, you only have to ask yourself: Am I going to sleep or waking up? If the former applies, then you doze up on Nyquil. If the latter, then shoot up on Dayquil. Nyquil sounds a bit like 'night' something, and it's filled with sedatives. Enough to put down a horse, in my experience. Dayquil, on the other hand, is your cough-medicine-on-speed alternative. You really feel like you've had a few coffee pots to many, after taking the stuff.

So I have been suffering from this incessant coughing. And a constant flow of citrus-colored snot. This has been going on more or less since Christmas. This morning I woke up with a particularily bad case of this. After not sleeping all that well last night. So I wandered downstairs, looking for a fresh pack of tissues. I was greeted by my wife, who told me I needed to sleep - a cough-free sleep - and promptly stuffed a green-colored pill in my mouth. Before I knew what had happened, I had swallowed it, my wife had handed me some earplugs and one of those dark things that go over your eyes when you are trying to sleep in aeroplanes, and told me to go back to bed.

This was at 7 am. I woke up again just before 11 am. And felt great! It was like someone had said "No, hold on a minute. That is no way to start a day. Let's take two."

"Aaaaaaand, action!"

What is it about this woman?

Her voice is mesmerizing. That much is sure. But there is something else. A 'smokiness'. Richness. Some thick, velvety feeling to it. I haven't been this enchanted over a singing voice since I first heard Allison Krauss.

I have been listening to the Come Away With Me album on repeat all day. While I've been working. And I haven't had my fill. Not by a long shot.

It's also something about the lyrics: "Come away with me in the night. Come away with me. And I will write you a song."

And: "I want to walk with you. On a cloudy day. In fields where the yellow grass grows knee kigh. So won't you try to come."

There is nostalgia on slow boil somewhere inside me. Nostalgia for something that hasn't happened.

Mona is from Brooklyn. As in Brooklyn, New York.

She moved out here because there were just too many people there. Here, she first got a job in a general store. She worked there for a year, before she began working for a college library. The job was good, but it had her working alone most of the time. So Mona, who moved here to get away from the masses of people, now quit her job because of lack of them.

Then she joined forces with another free spirit to run a daycare business. And now, Mona takes care of my daughter. And I do not think that she could be in better hands.

Familiarity can be oh-so comfortable.

My daughter is, like most other infants I guess, totally hooked on routine. She knows that when I've fed her her dinner, I will take off her bib and take her to the bathroom to brush her teeth (recently upgraded from 'tooth'). After that, she gets to turn off the light in the bathroom and we take her upstairs for a fresh diaper and a change into the pyjamas. Then it's down again for a night cap and then off to bed. Any change in this routine will cause a little hesitation and uncertainty, but a stricht adherence brings out a smile and a giggle.

I have heard that we pick up almost as many things from our kids as they do from us. For example, I swear that my wife's laughter is sounding gradually more like my daughter's giggles. I, too, have fallen victim to this. I have become a horrid little creature of habits. And I didn't used to be this way. Now, I derive real satisfaction from our little routines. To the point where I now get up just moments before the alarm clock goes off in the morning.

Even eating has now gotten some familiar habits. For example, I have come to realize that when we go and buy slices of pizza down in the village, I am a two-slices-man. Not one. And not three. No. Two. And only two. Every now and then, I'll try to break out of these habits. And I get punished every time. Like tonight. I had three slices and my stomach feels like someone heavy is sitting on it. Not good.

Listen to me! Jeez! I can't believe that this is me talking. I am not like this. I don't follow rules. I do not have 'habits'. I sound so boring. What's happening to me? I can't be turning middle-aged. It's too soon!

Help!

As you may have noticed, I am not really big on turning this little rant into a forum. Listening to other people somehow doesn't seem to fit in with this thinking-aloud-thing that I have got going here. So instead of having a 'shout out', I have a 'whisper back', which is basically just an e-mail address.

And I get the most amazing variety of e-mail.

Sometimes I get compliments, and sometimes I get disapprovals. Someone sends me little snippets of poetry every now and then. Many keep asking for a 'shout out'-style comment system. Not going to happen.

Then there are those real-life trolls. I have actually grown fond of one of them. His last e-mail, of yesterday, is just plain hilarious:

[...] Why have you gone SOO SOOOOFT???! This has turned ino PURE EMOTIONAL WISHYWASHY DRIVEL!!!! Get a GRIP, man! You're not the first idiot who knocked up his old lady. So you have a daughter. BIG DEAL!!! [...]

To me it is so obvious that this guy really cares. You can just see that his frustration is only a way to say 'I miss your old way of writing'. And that is so sweet.

I feel your pain, maan. :)

I feel like my work matters. Much of it, anyway.

At least the teaching. And the research stuff. What I do to pay the bills, I am not so certain of. It does have its merits, I guess, and my work actually does help people from time to time. And that feels great. I mean, actually giving somebody something and thereby making him better equipped to do his thing.

That feels good.

Funny how your subconcious self is always at work.

I had this song on my mind all morning. Just the song. Not the lyrics. I sort of thought it might be by Elvis Costello, but wasn't sure.

Finally, I called an old friend and sang the first few lines for him. Of course he knew it. "It's 'She', by Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach".

I went and Googled the lyrics. This is how it begins:

She
May be the face I can't forget
A trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day.