Paying Ready Attention

It’s just before a quarter to seven in the morning; the temperature is over 25 0 C and the sky is streaked with pink, purple and orange clouds.  It should be autumn, but it’s still summer.  Waking to a temperature that exceeds the normal average maximum for the time of year is not the best way to start the day.  Tea may sluice away some of the nights disturbance, but it does not make up for lost sleep. The roads are quiet even for this time of the morning.  Most people are still asleep in what passes for the cool of the morning.  I drive past a few houses where people stand in their gardens and, shaking their heads, look up the sky.  Another week will have to slip by before we see temperatures in the teens, before sleep is cool and refreshing. The flags on the Westgate Bridge hang limp and unmoving as the sun burns away the cloud and sky turns from pale to bright. For me, it’s a well-worn path to the east, towards Queenscliff, towards a ...

More than most other places I like islands, which I don’t suppose is an emotion to set me apart from the crowd.  Neither is it a badge of pride, it’s just a statement of fact.  Just one of those dichotomies that split us from some and join us to others. Beer or wine?  The fish or the chips?  Boots or shoes?  Offshore or onshore?  Many of life’s either/or splits seem to come from habit, tradition or inoculation. My fondness for islands seems to grow with the same inevitable path as my girth in middle age.   But I need to define the terms of my affection before we move on. I am not talking about the huge, continental sized islands where, despite the best intentions of the ocean, you can still feel land locked.  Nor do I mean the nation sized ones whose coastlines expand off into a distance suitable only for charity walking ex-sportsmen still desperate to live in the affections of the public. And while I may adore these pla...