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Why I Can’t Live In Armenia (I’m Too British)

My life is boring. My daily routine consists of getting up an hour before sunrise, going for a run, jumping into (and rapidly out of) a cold shower, having breakfast and then sitting down for an 8‑to-12-hour stint in front of my computer screen. I am making websites for a living these days. It puts money in the bank for travelling, the prospect of which is starting to inch within visible range. But it bores me to tears.

It could be worse. Much worse. There’s a big, empty park on a hilltop 15 minutes walk away, which I share in the mornings with a small crew of old men who patrol the big wide promenades at night, so I’m lucky for that. I live in a country which might not exactly fit the definition of utopia, but I have all of life’s essentials, and nobody’s starving, so I’m lucky for that. I have a skill — that I can use anywhere on the planet with an internet connection — to earn a half-decent Western wage, so on a global scale I’m exceptionally lucky for that. But most of the time, I’m bored out of my mind.