It’s been a very long time since I paid any attention to this blog. Many times over the years, I wanted to write something. But then one thing would happen, then another, then another. The world lurched from one horrible event to the other, and in the midst of it all, poking fun at Greek reality TV or talking about the little details of my own life felt reductive.

Time’s moved on, and I’ve realised that life isn’t going to get any easier, and there will never be a more peaceful time to write here and keep this blog updated. In any case, AI is gobbling up original writing with the voracity of an Arrakis sand worm, and I thought maybe there are still people out there who like to read things written by human beings. So here I am again.

Yesterday I went to the gym. It was a rare cold Athenian morning and I’d wrapped myself in an oversized feather down puffer jacket. It’s far too big for me.

“I wish I could lie in a big pile of feather down. Or fluff. Or cotton!” I thought to myself as our coach talked about the workout of the day (no burpees, thank you, coach!).

Then I realised that the sensation of that cosy down jacket had unlocked an old memory from my childhood. Like a long-forgotten letter rediscovered, the memory began to unfold itself in my mind and I thought about it through the whole workout.

When I was a little girl in Pakistan, the paternal side of my family owned a cotton mill. Every spring when the cotton was collected, it was piled up in giant, fluffy mountains before being processed. Me, my sisters and our cousins would delight in spending hours climbing these cotton mountains and throwing ourselves down them. Where else could you jump from two storeys high and not be hurt at all?

These memories came back perfectly preserved. I can smell the cotton as I bring them to mind, the sweet and slightly earthy smell. The not altogether white cotton, and the little brown stick and twigs poking out of it. Sometimes the cotton mountains were covered in huge tarps to keep rain off. On those days, we would slide down the tarp-covered cotton mountains, squealing at the strange sensation the tarp created as our bare soles slid against it when we climbed back up.

Up and down, up and down for hours. We’d dig holes in the mountains to burrow into. We’d end up covered from head to foot in fine cotton fibres. There are photos somewhere of me and my sisters buried deep in a cotton mountain, only our faces visible, grinning.

There is no real point to me sharing this story with you. It’s just a sunny-dappled memory that came back to me as I realised the ugliness of the world was not going to go anywhere any time soon. Life has moved on. My children are growing up. Hermes has not walked for five years now. Hector is trying to master the art of a wheelie on his bicycle. Now and then I can encourage Orion on a winter night to leave the comfort of the sofa and YouTube to look at the constellation he was named after.

The cotton gin is no more. The cotton mountain of my childhood is gone. But at least in my own corner of this world, on most days when I close the door to my flat, I am back inside my own cotton mountain.