When you turn your head contentedly to watch the first flock of parrots hurtle bullet-headed by at 6:30am. When the great treat you indulge in at the end of Friday’s schoolday is a bucket-bath (cement bucket for bath, cinema-style disposable Dr Pepper cup for jug). When you don’t need to think to remember to shake your shoes for cockroaches and scorpions before putting them on. When the roosters no longer wake you. When listening to the violins in Borodin’s second string quartet transports you to another plane that overlays on the palm trees and thatches to make a planet that doesn’t quite exist. When 6:15 is a lovely lie-in. When you stop noticing that everyone calls a personalised greeting wherever you go. When you start daring to wear flipflops despite the lepidopterous horror stories. When headtorches feel normal and electric lights do not. When one small beer feels like a wild night out and, frankly, profoundly risqué. When four days working away from your husband feels like a yawning eternity.