The sun crept slowly down, painting the sky Australianblue as we sat propped amongst big embracing pillows. This is what it's like to be grown up, I guess.

Come meet me at sunset, at the Black Salt in North Freo, I'll buy you a drink and we can talk.

At home in the carport I sat for stretched minutes, while Andrew Porter finished a short story reading on the book show. It was harrowing, but beautiful. It reoxigenated my blood for the rest of the night.

Yesterday was a long day, and mostly good.
Sometimes the shit-bucket tips over on Sunday and I am left to start the week harbouring angry thoughts and some frustration.
But the start of Sunday, or somewhere in the middle, was beautiful.

In an indiansummery day, redolent with birdsong, we sat sipping coffee and leafing through the Sunday papers, and your hand never left my leg. Summer skin.

Today is my third (and for this season, final) Carmen instalment, and I was saying to Betty yesterday how wonderful it is to have a catalogue of experiences from which to draw and compare and decide whether this Escamillo was the worst, or just middling?

The new job is glowing and yesterday AO pushed me (with a firm shove) in the direction of the Indigenous Affairs department which may one day result in a dream job.

And tomorrow, Gary and Jo to dinner: sociology and gulyas.