I met Felicity Everett, as part of a writers’ lunch group, during her brief decampment to Australia. I read her prior novel, The Story of Us, and recall being most impressed by her terrific grasp of narrative control and characterisation. These are not my writerly strengths. She has a new book out now, The People at Number 9, and exactly the same thoughts went through my head as I powered through it. In this difficult year of reading, I tend to find fault with every book I open, but not this one. I read it in two days and gasped with admiration: if only I can, one day, write this well!
Check out the doppelganger. One of the pair is the intense one, attending to a big year. The other is the relaxing one, enjoying birding in northwest Victoria. Which is which? How would I know?
It felt decidedly strange to do no writing, not even journaling, for five full days. Sleeps were full of dreams. I would have said it was a welcome respite, but the transition back to real life has been a jolt.
What greater pleasure than buying the gear you need to progress your passion, eh? Research it, ask your friends, equivocate . . . then slap down the dollars! A rookie cyclist like me receives so much advice, so much that I’m wanting to defer, to take pleasure in the deferral. Well, I can announce that I’ve begun acquiring bicycling gear: gifted gel gloves and the little under-seat satchel in the photo. Not exactly profligate, but you need to know this: once the floodgates are opened, there are no limits. Anyone know the price of a better bike?
Limpid, blue-sky autumn day in Melbourne. Pressures – work, chores, all of life – crowd me. An appointment in the afternoon, so my mandatory run looms late morning, rather than in the early afternoon. 12 kms, right? Push for the 1,000-km annual goal, right?
Instead, on an impulse, I eased all my worries by charging off along the river and turning back after three kilometres. 6 kms – my shortest run in ever so long. 6:15 minutes/km – my best time this year. Oh and my heart sang!