It is true. I was flirting with the idea of packing up, of leaving, of becoming a professor in a top university overseas where I would no doubt live longer, healthier and without a care in the world.
Until one morning in late 2016, just before I left on a research fellowship in America. I rushed into an all-night shop in a Claremont petrol station at 4am on the way to the airport. There was a woman standing at the door to the Woolworths, mopping the floor.