Désolé du retard pour la mis ene ligne de la dernière épreuve écrite, amis j'ai une vie en dehors de mon PC ! (si si c'est vrai, j'ai fini de regarder la saison deux de Kyle XY, j'ai squatté chez une gente, je me suis faite squatter, et j'ai regardé un film, ah et j'ai aussi trainer sur le PC, je suis allée au ciné et à la fête de la musique... Bon, ok, j'ai pas tant de vie que ça, mais bon... on fait comme si !)
Donc l'épreuve était mercredi après midi... comme ça j'ai pu dormir le matin :D
[The story takes place in Kenya in the early 1950's.]
A postcard came airmail from London:
Dear Vic and Deepa,
We're having a wonderful time here !
Hope you have a smashing holiday too. Say "jambo" to Njoroge.
Kwa heri ! See you soon !
- Bill and Annie
On the reverse side, Picadilly Circus in full colour, a city scene grander and infinitely more bustling than our own modest and quite somnolent King Street roundabout. Look, said Papa, who was holding up the postcard, the biggest city in the world.
Where's the circus, Papa ? I asked him, our self-styled expert on matters English.
Maybe there was a circus there a long time ag, he said, trying to sound confident and unable to hide his uncertainty.
Mother, Deepa and I were gathered round Papa in the shop, poring with him over every details of the glorious scene. The black taxis, a red double-bus carrying advertisements on its side, men and women in hats, a red mailbox, a newsagent, all the store and street signs. Papa turned a wistful eye to Mother, who acknowledged with a smile; it was his dearest wish to visit that center of the universe once in his lifetime. It was is Mecca, his Varanasi, his Jerusalem. A visit there conferret status, moreover you became one of the select group, the London-returned.
He tacked the postcard on the upright behind the table, where it stayed for more than a year, proud reminder not only of his yearing but also of his European "friends".
Bill and Annie had gone without their parents. To my parents it was a sign of European irresponsability that they could send their children on an expensive voyage and yet run up sizeable debts in town. Though Mother remembered graciously that Mrs. Bruce did have a wealthy family in England. But how could she allow herself to send the children by themselves, unescorted, on a voyage that took twenty-four hours, with stopovers in strange places ? Suppose someone kidnapped them ? Who'd hut a British child, Papa snapped in reply, they'd have every policeman in the world looking for them. That privilege comes from ruling the world.
Voilà la première partie, la suite plus tard !
Donc l'épreuve était mercredi après midi... comme ça j'ai pu dormir le matin :D
[The story takes place in Kenya in the early 1950's.]
A postcard came airmail from London:
Dear Vic and Deepa,
We're having a wonderful time here !
Hope you have a smashing holiday too. Say "jambo" to Njoroge.
Kwa heri ! See you soon !
- Bill and Annie
On the reverse side, Picadilly Circus in full colour, a city scene grander and infinitely more bustling than our own modest and quite somnolent King Street roundabout. Look, said Papa, who was holding up the postcard, the biggest city in the world.
Where's the circus, Papa ? I asked him, our self-styled expert on matters English.
Maybe there was a circus there a long time ag, he said, trying to sound confident and unable to hide his uncertainty.
Mother, Deepa and I were gathered round Papa in the shop, poring with him over every details of the glorious scene. The black taxis, a red double-bus carrying advertisements on its side, men and women in hats, a red mailbox, a newsagent, all the store and street signs. Papa turned a wistful eye to Mother, who acknowledged with a smile; it was his dearest wish to visit that center of the universe once in his lifetime. It was is Mecca, his Varanasi, his Jerusalem. A visit there conferret status, moreover you became one of the select group, the London-returned.
He tacked the postcard on the upright behind the table, where it stayed for more than a year, proud reminder not only of his yearing but also of his European "friends".
Bill and Annie had gone without their parents. To my parents it was a sign of European irresponsability that they could send their children on an expensive voyage and yet run up sizeable debts in town. Though Mother remembered graciously that Mrs. Bruce did have a wealthy family in England. But how could she allow herself to send the children by themselves, unescorted, on a voyage that took twenty-four hours, with stopovers in strange places ? Suppose someone kidnapped them ? Who'd hut a British child, Papa snapped in reply, they'd have every policeman in the world looking for them. That privilege comes from ruling the world.
Voilà la première partie, la suite plus tard !
