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Byline: Vicki Woods
In late June 2003, I walked into my study with something of a headache and opened my E-mail box for the millionth time. I had mail; thank God I had mail; I'd been sleepless and aching for mail for 48 hours straight. A laconic message beeped up, from my son, Sebastian:
"Am in Baghdad. Am fine. Will email later cos this place is v expensive. xx."
I sagged with relief. I'd been crouched over my computer so long, I should have been wearing flight socks to ward off economy-seat syndrome. But now I was singing: "He's alive, he's alive, he's alive-alive-O!" I forwarded the message to a) his father and b) his sister; pressed reply; ...