Fleeing home is a family tradition. Mum, South African and pro-ANC, fled from apartheid. Dad, American and Jewish, fled, I think, from his mother. Last October, with nothing much to flee from at all, I made his decades-delayed return journey to New York City. Hibernating in the quiet, snow-blanketed suburbs, I can't say that my life has been changed forever. Were I in London, I would likely be doing what I am now: working part time, pondering going back to university, . . .

Going to the bathroom these days is an exercise that shows off a peculiar fluid grace. In one movement I unbutton my jeans, dart my hand into my pocket as they descend, pluck out my iPhone and flip it a full turn between thumb and forefinger. I sit, settle myself, unlock the phone, and open Twitter to scan for responses to the hilarious video I posted three minutes ago of a clown being used as a piñata. The whole thing has probably taken four or five seconds. . . .