Kartography

 We're at Philip Island this weekend; a place I've been many times, but never feel a particular association with. It seems like there are many other people, my partner included, who have a kind of innate understanding of this place; a deep, visceral connection to it, which brings with it a comfort and belonging.

That being said, she went the wrong way out of the supermarket car park to go back to our rented house, so perhaps it's not that deep.

We went go-karting. I wasn't sure how well the wee man would cope with the physical effort involved, but he was right into it, and had such a great time we rebooked for tomorrow as we were leaving.

Wee man's mate, who is with us for the weekend, was clearly rueing his decision to journey to Phillip island in the winter in shorts. We made a mercy dash to a surf shop and he's now safely ensconced in a pair of actual pants.

Dinner at the pub with friends tonight, we're back at the house for "quiet time". The boys are playing switch sports and I'm lying on the bed, seriously considering a nap. Tough life, right?

Challenging Times

The challenge, naturally, sets out to be, well, challenging. Every day in May, (although slightly truncated by dint of the club meeting on the 4th), we are required (ok "required" might be stretching it, it's a challenge not a directive), to put words to paper. 

I'm often struck, in my professional life, by people coming to me and telling me, on being assigned a writing task, that they're "not a writer". I smile, then, because despite near on 25 years of being paid to put words onto paper (although scant few missives from me actually land on dead trees these days), I don't know that I consider myself one either. 

I have friends who make a living, writing books. Actual books, with titles and blurbs and pages and plotlines. I've always thought of them as "real" writers, and of me, well, I say "mechanically pretty good, I've got a few chops". 

I've been waiting, you see, for the story to arrive. 

Now, at 40 *cough* years old, I'm starting to wonder if maybe the stories have been walking past, and I just haven't been seeing them. 

 

Aged Pumpkin

I was reminded, just yesterday, by The Pumpkin, on the occasion of his 17th birthday, that this thing exists at all. 

I was struck, last evening, by a challenge from a social group I attend, to write a journal every day of May in 2022. 

These two occurrences, by dint of association, led to this morning's "I wonder what will happen if", during an idle phase, between coffees and during the assessment of the piles of work on one's desk, pondering what will make up the morning's work. 

So, to that end, I wonder what will happen.