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BEFORE BRILLACOT
BORN IN INDONESIA, schooled in Australia, I had never looked on France as a real home until fifteen years ago. Despite our childhood biennial sojourns in France with our expatriate French parents, France to us children was a holiday from real life in Australia and the banalities and torments of school (with Sister Veronica calling me "a pest" for being away for three months when I should have had my nose in my hated maths books).
In our beautiful, haunted old house in the village of Empeaux, thirty-five kilometres from Toulouse, we raced from red room to blue room to brown room, joyously taking in all the sights, the sounds, and ...