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reception desk. A man arrives: he’s tall and he’s called Muhamad. He shakes our hands warmly and quickly jots down some notes before giving us some things: two toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, a broom, toilet paper and 45 euros. We’re rich again!
    We follow Muhamad up some stairs and along a corridor that’s horrible and running with water, with pails and floor cloths in the middle, dustbins in a corner, and all sorts of stuff piled up at the far end. He opens a door with numbers on it that I recognise from my English lessons at school: 123, easy to remember. This is our room. It’s small, with bunk beds. I choose the bottom one. There’s also a table and two chairs, a wardrobe, a washbasin and a refrigerator. Outside the window, between two tall buildings, the bare branches of a tree are swaying. My father seems pleased. The room is clean, the walls are white and spotless. He likes it when things are clean and tidy. He detests cockroaches. So do I.
    While my father unpacks our bags, I go off to explore. The corridor has dried out and doesn’t look such a mess. The building is quiet. Too quiet. Like everywhere else in France, there are no children to be seen. I open doors and look inside. I find the bathroom and toilets, which are a bit dirty and disgusting. But Muhamad is back already, and takes us downstairs to a big room full of tables and chairs.
    â€˜This is the canteen, CANTEEN. This is where you’ll come to eat for the moment.’
    The hours pass, quietly, slowly, pointlessly. And then – then I hear a vague murmur, footsteps, noises getting louder, people chasing each other, a stampede, shouts, voices – children! It’s five o’clock. Success! Friends!
    I race out to meet them. By a stroke of luck there’s a Bangladeshi boy, Hadi. He introduces me to the rest of them, and straight away I’m one of the gang. Some of them speak good French. I admire that. Maybe one day I will too. We play games – not cricket or badminton but football and tag. On fine days we play outside, behind the building. On rainy days we hang about on the stairs. Sometimes we play outside even so and get soaked and are told off by our parents. But we do it again anyway.
    In the morning my friends go off to school, and I wait. I’m impatient. When the clock says the school day is over, life will begin again for me. The older boys arrive back first, then the younger ones who are at primary school. Maybe in France the older you are, the less you have to work?

    Muhamad puts my name down to go to school. On my first day, my friends show us the way. I’m happy not to be left all alone in the hostel any more. The head teacher meets us at the school door. His name is Jean-Michel. He has white hair that makes him look old, and jeans that make him look young. I’ve never seen a head teacher wearing jeans before.
    Jean-Michel takes me into the playground. There are children running in all directions, but I’m not fazed. I’m not easily fazed. Plus I recognise some of them from the hostel. When break is over, Jean-Michel takes me into Mme Faustine’s class, which is for children who don’t speak French. Then he takes me into Mme Klein’s class for eight- and nine-year-olds. Then we go back to Mme Faustine’s class. I’m not sure whose class I’m in.
    Mme Faustine tells me to sit down. There are only ten children in the class: two Chinese girls, a Sri Lankan boy who lives at the hostel, a Chechen boy who is also from the hostel, two black boys, a fair-haired boy, a weird boy from I never find out where, a chubby girl and a wimp. Mme Faustine gives me some colouring to do. I take my time, as I’m in no rush to start work. When I’ve finished, she tells me the picture is of Father Christmas. She makes me say it after her. FATHER CHRISTMAS. I’ve never heard of Christmas. In Bangladesh we celebrate Eid.
    I have lunch in the canteen. The dinner