I am reading a novel set in Antarctica and it's pushing a comfortable cold through my being. I have been thinking a lot about the Great Ocean Road and how that is a place where cold angry weather works, even for me.
Standing under a flinty sky with the furious waves crashing by the Sherwood River. I miss my Victorian past sometimes.

Between two engagements on Sunday, driving down Hampton Road I came across a garage sale sign. For a fluttery moment I thought it was the old blue house, with its brickwork and pale glass. It was the next door neighbour. The wild-haired woman who shouted shouted at her granddaughter and slammed kitchen things around. I hesitated, and then stopped. I breathed in the old familiar gum on the corner, and fingered items on tables trying to decipher their stories. I bought two books.
And then walking back to where Norm was parked I wanted to stop at number 40 and put my hand on the warmed blue porchwood. It was at that moment I realised that no one from that old life is left. B & P are long gone, I can't call them and say "Remember, we lived here. Together" I haven't written to Gareth in years and then it was just the four of us. There were happy days then.

It was a beautiful and relaxing weekend, even if it was full of drink and screaming children (not at the same time)...

My late written Christmas cards are finally making it to the post office and the macerating fruit will be made into mince pies tonight. It's 66 degrees on the ground in Newman, and my heart is full of happy contrast.