Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.
I was wearing shorts and sandals, and a big sheet of plastic. I looked massively ridiculous and I did not care.
It had to be an early night, and you aren’t allowed to touch the local moonshine. It’s an early train up in to the mountains to the next flat. Everything has to be packed up again.
A poster on the bus advertised the heats for the local yodelling festival. Not the festival itself, but the pre-competition to allow people to apply for the competition itself.
To the British mind Australia is the dictionary definition of paradise.
We live in a perpetual gloom, where the only true communal activity is moaning about how gloomy it is.
It’s not a good thing when a gun-shot is the most predictable outcome of a meeting, but that’s the way it had always been with Bob and Larry; they just couldn’t express affection any other way.
It’s often a battle getting my child to eat, so what she needs are distractions. Yeah.