On hot summer days, the deep furrow between the potato plants at the bottom of my grandmother’s vegetable garden was my favourite spot to lie down, stare at the sky and contemplate the state of the world.

My other childhood hideout was the coal shed, where shards of sunlight through the holes in the tin roof created an ethereal glow around my bed of stones. My grandmother’s fury and the severe scrub-down I got when I emerged from my filthy sanctuary were sometimes a deterrent to my contemplative interludes.

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