What’s on the box?


I’ve had three nights out since March, and when I say ‘night’s out’ it’s very loosely defined. Two of those were early evening visits to pubs in Richmond where I would have a beer and a counter-meal in the two hours designated to me. On both occasions, I was home by 8pm. Cray, eh? The other night was a visit to the Cheeses in that brief period of relative freedom. We had dinner, a bottle or two of wine, and watched a movie. I walked home afterwards.

That’s the size of it. I used to complain about my social life. In my heyday, I’d be out 3-4 nights a week. Those days are long gone, and I don’t think I’d want to return to that. As a general rule, though, I reckon you need at least one night a week out being social. Though I complained, mostly I managed that over the last year. Until lockdown.

Being in lockdown means you have to find other ways to keep yourself entertained. In the absence of the give and take with friends, and the general distraction of other places – a pub or bar, a restaurant, a footy game or the home of a friend, and so on – the senses need something to distract from what isn’t there. There are few options.

For me, at least I read, but it’s possible to read too much. It’s like most things, you need a variety of tempo to keep things interesting, as well as different senses engaged along the way.

So I have books, lucky me, and I’ll listen to music too, and wending through my days are audiobooks I play when I’m preparing dinner or doing housework. There’s sport on TV these days, though much of it is uninspiring – the physical constraints of our times make for a poorer standard in general.

That leaves TV more generally, and streaming services more specifically. I reckon everyone has gone crazy watching Netflix and the other streaming services throughout this period. Listening in on social media, it seems that many have experienced the same as I have – we’re running out of shows to watch.

This is the uninspiring reality of our times. It exposes the shallowness of lifestyle but given there are few other alternatives, this shred of clothing is preferable to seeing the emperor in all his naked glory.

The other week I signed up to a month’s trial of Amazon Prime to find something new to watch. I found a few things, but there was one show particularly that was great.

Tales From the Loop is a funny sort of show. It seems as if set in a parallel universe to ours, very similar, but different in unique ways. The Loop itself – some groundbreaking technology unlike we have, is at the centre of the show. There are robots wandering the countryside and tractors that hover over the ground and everyday little things that seem quirky to our eyes. It’s very approachable though, almost modest, the technology accepted as if it is nothing special – which is what I guess what we do with the marvels we have come to take for granted.

The aesthetic is familiar to anyone who grew up through the seventies and eighties. There’s a cosy glow to it that made me feel nostalgic at times. At the centre of it are families, a small core group of them and their circle which the stories revolve around. It has a very relatable intimacy to it that is at times quite heart-rending.

As someone who writes, it’s the sort of authenticity you strive for. They’re the things you absorb more through your skin than you do your mind. You know them suddenly, you recognise the truth of something that perhaps you’ve never considered until that point. They’re like submerged memories coming to the surface. It’s a very human experience, and it’s our humanity these tales tough upon.

Some of these stories haunted me afterwards. They had a poignancy that comes from being real. You’re left afterwards thinking about them, and reflecting upon yourself. The music, by Phillip Glass, has a subtle melancholy that gets under your sin. It’s great music, and it is the perfect accompaniment to the story – non-intrusive, but it deepens the viewing experience.

I’ve watched the full series now and hope there will be another. It’s a hidden gem I probably not have encountered if not for the strange times we live in. I’d recommend to anyone, though I think the sensitive will get most out of it.

But, what’s next now? I’m watching The Marvellous Mrs Maisel and enjoying it well enough. Others are hit and miss. We’re going to be in this for a while yet, so I’ll need more recommendations.

Seasons passing


We’ve had some wintry blasts and the rainfall so far this year is at near-record levels (more than all of last year), but right now the weather is near perfect. The nights are clear and cold, and the chill persists into mid-morning. By then the sun is brightly shining in a sky almost bereft of cloud. It warms up slowly but becomes very pleasant. It’s a pleasure to go out in such serene weather. I’d happily settle for this 300 days of the year.

It’s funny to think that winter is less than two weeks away – though the weekend before last was cold and wet and I was so uninspired, so lethargic, that all I did was lay on the couch and watch Netflix.

I was more productive the weekend just gone. Friday was my designated day off, and its quickly becoming my favourite day of the week. Come Thursday night I feel released, though work is hardly a trial at the moment. I sleep in Friday morning and read. When I get up finally I set myself to do things – cook, clean, do some sorting out. Basically, achieve something. Every Friday I’ve ticked something more off the list, generally listening to Spotify or one of my audiobooks.

Though weekends are theoretically different now, they feel pretty much the same for me, and I’m generally doing the same as I would if I was in the office Monday to Friday. The only difference is that most Saturday’s I go for a long walk with Cheeseboy and the dogs down by the beach. Otherwise, I do the normal stuff – a bit of grocery shopping, a kitchen clean, maybe some cooking, and in the afternoon I’ll write. On Sunday I’ll cook myself breakfast, though avoiding the programs I used to watch about politics and sport. Once more, I’ll end up writing. Late afternoon I’ll put my virtual pen down and run a hot bath and shampoo my hair.

Like many others, I’ve left my hair go in lockdown. My last hair cut was in February. My hair is undoubtedly thick now, and growing to a bohemian length. I’m just passing through the awkward, in-between stage, and it should soon look a lot better. I don’t plan to get it cut until I have to, and then maybe not even then. I like having long hair, and I’m figuring I might adopt a summer-short hair/winter-long hair cycle.

I’ve been shaving every 8-10 days throughout this period, but am considering letting that grow out too. What counts against it is the itchy stage, and the fact it looks so fucking grey. Maybe I’ll get it coloured?

Regardless, I have time to make my mind up. Though restrictions are easing, it was confirmed this morning that we won’t be going back to work until July at the soonest. Even then, it won’t be all back.

I’m in no hurry to get back into the office, but I’m hanging out for a social beer.

 

My way


In lieu of all the overtime I did in preparation for lockdown, I’ve taken off today and tomorrow. I’m probably due a day or two on top of that, but this’ll likely do it.

It’s another cool day slowly weeping rain. We went for our walk before, Rigby and me. It was colder than I thought. The streets were quiet and damp. I came across a mother with her son walking their dog and exchanged a good morning. We did the loop, the chill setting in despite the activity, before making it home to a warm house.

I’ve fired up Spotify and made a cup of tea. I caught up on my emails and the news. I’ve mapped out this week’s menu – less meat this week than last: jollof rice, a roasted carrot and tomato spaghetti recipe, a Balinese curry, and maybe a French recipe come the weekend cooking chicken in milk. Lunch today is leftover soup (roasted carrot and parsnip) and dinner the leftover chicken dish from last night, which was delicious – a spicy, Indian inspired tomato and coriander chicken dish.

(For those interested in these things – few, I admit, though I’m one of them – I keep a database of recipes I’m constantly adding to. I cook, and I rate them, adding notes about how I might it improve it next time. Most of the recipes I make are new recipes because I like to try things. Anything with a rating 4 or above is a keeper. It’s a tough kitchen).

What I don’t miss this morning are the online meetings. I chafe at routine at the best of times, especially meaningless routine, but it’s gone to a new level in lockdown. I understand, there’s an inclination to make up for working apart by creating an artificial structure, which includes these meetings. And I understand that some will welcome it because they need it. I don’t. I would handle it better if the meetings were more spontaneous, but these are locked in and repetitive, same time every day. There’s a lot of earnest try-hard in the inspiration and conduct of these meetings, and I tune out 80% of the time. I just want to get back to doing the work.

But today and tomorrow I don’t need to deal with that. What I’ll do is return to my writing. It’s a good antidote to work because it drives everything else out of your head when you’re doing it. It can be exhausting, but it cleanses your mind of things that might otherwise longer.

I’ll stay in the warmth and perhaps later I’ll spend an hour reading. I’ll treat the mind. At some point, I’ll have to treat other parts of me, but that’ll have to wait.

For the record, despite a recent spate of infections, I expect we’ll be back in the office, more or less, by this time next month.

Restoration


Except to pick up the newspaper from the driveway, I didn’t walk out the front door yesterday. It was a quiet, indulgent day, and exactly what I needed. I put the heating on and lay on the couch and watched TV.

It blew outside, and sometimes it rained and throughout it was cool. There comes a time every year when the seasons change. That’s usually around Easter, but Easter is later this year, and the change has come regardless, I think. There’ll still be warm days, just as there were chilly days before, but the balance has tilted the other way. I don’t mind. It’s fine to be cooped up inside when it’s wintry without.

It did have a cosy feel yesterday. I watched an old footy match and most of a couple of movies before, mid-afternoon, I got into bed, fully clothed. I read for a while with an eclectic soundtrack streaming in the background. I grew tired and set my book aside. I closed my eyes and to the sounds of the Four Seasons, as vibrantly re-composed by Max Richter, I fell into a nap.

All of this was just what I needed. I was so weary, but with it, I felt a little off, as sometimes you will when you’re so tired. Out of sorts, I guess, my physic uncalibrated. My strength replenished itself as the day went on. By late afternoon I felt notably better than I did on waking up. Today, much restored, I am better again.

I finished the day watching a rerun of Se7en and later in bed reading again, before plunging into sleep.

I plan to take it quietly again today, but I’ve already been out to give Rigby the walk he missed out on yesterday. The wind is high in the trees. It reminds of the way surf sounds. The sky is low with clouds, and there’s no-one about.

I want to consolidate the gains I made yesterday, but I also plan to be a little more active today. I’ll cook a moussaka later. I need to bottle the tomato sauce I made. I’ll clear out my study a little more and, if I can manage it by myself, will move the filing cabinet to the garage and bring in my bike. I have a kit to turn it into a stationary bike, handy in times like these. And I expect the delivery of a new office chair later.

There’s work again tomorrow, but I hope and think the peak has passed for me. I sense around me in the meetings I have and what I read on social media that people are working, but mixing it with other things. I think that’s natural, but while I’ve set myself tasks every day, I complete them in my own time pretty much. I’ve been diligent, and have been working 9 hour days through this. Maybe I can begin to ease back. Once BAU returns, it’ll be a lot simpler – and Easter, not that it means much, is less than a week away.

In control


It’s just after 5pm, and I’ve knocked off after what feels like another busy, but productive, day working from home.

As it has been the last few, it’s a pretty day. The sky is blue, the temperature mild. Streets are quiet too, but then that’s the new normal.

It’s too early to say if I’ve formed a new set of routines, but it feels quite comfortable and seamless. Much of the routine is set for me. Every morning I have scheduled team meetings at 9.30 and 10.15 via Teams to catch-up on what’s going on. Today there was a much broader online catch-up at 10.30 for the whole department. I was on mute throughout as I didn’t need or want to say anything. It came as a distraction to me, and as I listened, I continued to work.

What becomes clear in times like these are the different ways people operate. It’s been said that extroverts will struggle in this current environment, and I can hear it in the too enthusiastic contributions to these meetings. I get nothing out of that. In fact, to be honest, I find it mildly irritating. There’s a lot of frivolity and mucking up, much more so than normal. These are abnormal times though, so it’s permitted and I turn a blind ear to it.

There was a clamour at the end of the meeting to make it a weekly thing. If today is anything to go by, there’s not much meat on the bone, but it’s not about that. It’s about contact and connection, and probably a lot of things I wrote about yesterday. The everyday routines are slipping away, and in times like this – for many – a meeting such as this is like clinging to a bit of wreckage in the sea after the ship has sunk beneath them.

I’m self-motivated, self-directed, self-sufficient. I draw from the inside, not externally, which paints me as a typical introvert. I prefer to be independent and do my own thing. Working from home presents no great challenge to me as I don’t need to be led or told (and prefer not to be). It works well for me now, and probably will continue to, but it’s something I need to be wary of.

My instinctive reaction today was typical. I get nothing out of what seems to be an artificial frisson, but then I’m the man who’ll do go it alone even against the best advice. I don’t like being needful or dependent or entangled, but it’s meant that when I should have asked for help in the past, I never did. That was a mistake, and something I need to be better at in general.

Today I got plenty of exercise, and perhaps I have those routines in place. This morning I went for a walk up to and behind the shopping centre, and to Hampton station. I climbed the stairs of the overpass and returned the way I came, just to make it a bit more strenuous. This afternoon I took Rigby for a walk in the sunshine. As it stands, I’ve completed a bit over 7,000 steps today.

I’ve also made a big pot of tomato sauce, and dinner is in the oven. Tomorrow I plan to make myself an omelette for breakfast before my first meeting. I feel in control.

 

Day two


Now that I’m working from home for God knows how long I’m facing the same challenges as thousands of others having to suddenly adapt to it.

I’ve done it before, and once FT when I had my own business, so not a huge stretch – though all the stuff around it is very different.

I’ve often found it much more productive working from home. There are not the distractions or interruptions of the office. You won’t waste time going up and down in the office (I race between floors), nor the general pointlessness of meetings. You work to your own natural rhythm. I generally start early-ish, then might drift off to have a shower or breakfast. Often times, I find myself to caught up in work that I look up and find hours have gone by. I’m always having lunch late. And sometimes I’ll work in the evening also, dipping in and out.

I’ve got my home office sorted after taking delivery of another monitor yesterday. I’ve got a Surface Pro, which is nice and portable, but not ideal for heavy-duty working – I’ve got it hooked up to two monitors in the office. Here I’ve got the one.

I think it’s important to create a routine in situations like this and to make an effort to remain active. I wake at the same time as I would if I was going to work. Instead of showering and getting dressed I make myself a coffee and check the important email from overnight, and respond as needed – I’m working if an offshore team. I’ll head back to bed for about an hour then catching up on news and social media, and maybe a chapter of the book I’m reading (currently, James: Varieties of Religious Experience).

I have online meetings first thing, but after that, I make an effort to go up the road to get a take-away coffee, while I still can. I’ve set myself goals in terms of activity, and won’t walk out the front door until I’ve had at least a thousand paces under my belt. I’ve got a bunch of exercise rituals I’ll tick off through the day, and I’ve committed to a minimum of 6,000 paces daily – at work, it’s nearer to 10,000, and around 13,000 more recently.

Here there are no stairs to climb, no place to roam come lunch, nobody to see – I’m not allowed. I go for my morning walk, and I walk Rigby in the afternoon or evening.

I plan to take a break around 4pm to do some cooking – a rice pudding, today. Tomorrow I’m making zucchini and feta fritters. For dinner tonight I’m having a homemade pizza. I also have a bunch of ironing to do around 5.30.

I’ll do a bit of work after that, have my dinner, and maybe I’ll have a hot tub after that. I was severely fatigued up to this morning, but some good rest has had a restorative effect. I still fancy in a bathful of radox tonight.

I’m umming and ahhing over my appearance. I dress casually through the day, naturally. But the haircut I had booked for Saturday has been cancelled, and it might be a while until I get my next one. I might go long then.

I’ve carried a beard since Christmas, but I thought I might shave it off in lockdown, which sounds counter-intuitive. It’s a close-cut beard that makes me look rugged – very much like a Viking. It also makes me look about ten years older because it’s predominantly grey, with pale sandy blonde bits. I like the beard, but I like seeming younger, too.

This is day two. I reckon there’s probably another month of this at least, and possibly much more. Whatever I do now will evolve into something more, as will the situation itself. I have a job now, am busy, but as the situation deteriorates – as we all know it will – what will come?

The old cliche, one day at a time.

Easing the weary


One of my aims this holiday period is to recharge my batteries. There have been times this year I’ve felt very weary, both in mind and body. It’s no real surprise I feel fatigued. I haven’t had a real break for years. The best I’ve done is a week here or there when I don’t stray from home. And, besides everything else, there’s been the ongoing struggle, which is wearing in itself.

I’ve had a pretty lazy time since Christmas. I had to do things leading into it – people to see, things to do, a book to write. For the last few days, I’ve taken it down a notch. Yesterday I watched the cricket all day sitting on the couch. I managed to scan a whole heap of old photos to my Google albums while doing that. I’ve been reading in-between times, and going to bed early, and eating more sensibly. It’s all good, except I feel crap.

The fact is I’m sleeping poorly. The quality of my sleep is down, and I seem incapable of sleeping in – no matter that I have all the time in the world. To make things worse, I’m waking up aching and sore. My right shoulder is a knot of tender muscle, and my hip is so twisted that I can barely walk straight. I think the verdict is I need a new bed. One day. In the meantime, maybe a massage.

It’s pretty normal at this time of year to reflect on where you’ve been and to look ahead to where you want to get to. That’s me, too. I’ve got a bunch of headline aspirations, but it’s all subject to my state of mind.

The thing is, it’s hard to get too adventurous when you’re feeling crap, and it’s time I did something about it. Time isn’t an issue – I’ve got about seven weeks of annual leave clocked up – but money is. The reason I’ve got so much leave is that I didn’t want to waste it doing nothing, so I never took it. One day, I would think, when I have money again, I can take a proper holiday.

There’s merit in the idea, except I may never get to go on holiday again at this rate. At the same time, there’s a serious discount on the benefit when all you do on your time off is lounge around the house. Particularly when it’s this house.

This is the conundrum. I’ve soldiered on and got a lot done just by hanging in there, but I don’t think I can take it much further until body and mind are refreshed. But how?

I still have another week off and it may be I ease into to it better than I’ve done thus far. Otherwise, I’m actually thinking about going back to work early, just so I don’t waste the days.

I’ll worry about all the other things I want to get done when I feel better. All I have right now to make myself better are good habits and attitude. To that extent, I’m further refining my diet – more veggies – and cutting down on the booze. And get some regular exercise in the mix. These are things I can do – and so it’s salad for the next few days (once the Christmas leftovers are gone!).

It’s Christmas Day


I woke the usual time this morning, and it took me a few moments to realise it was Christmas Day. It seemed much as usual. It was quiet outside and the light pale. There were two messages on my phone. One was from a friend overseas, and the other from one of my nephews and I responded to both. Then I did just as I would on any normal day. I fed Rigby and let him out. I made a flat white for myself. And I went back to bed to catch up with the news and social media on my iPad, and then to read.

It’s funny how your mind plays upon you at such times. This a perfectly acceptable and pleasant way to spend a morning. The problem is that it’s Christmas morning and even as I read I could recall the dozens of years when I would be with up with my family bright and early as the kids (including me, as a kid) would tear into their presents. We’d look on, Christmas carols on in the background, a festive cheer in our heart, and a glass of bubbles in our hands. I knew something similar to that was happening all over Australia at that moment, and soon much of the world.

It’s not what I had that that weighed on me, it was what I didn’t have.

To be fair, it’s half by choice. This year, as others, I’ve had invitations to share Christmas celebrations. As most years, I’ve politely declined. Christmas is a time of rituals and family. You might not see some of your family from one Christmas to the next, but on that day you pick up just were you left it. You know how it works because you’ve done it so often with these people. You slip into your part, knowing it backwards, because this is who you are in your family. You know by rote the traditions, the schedule, even much of the conversation. It’s comfortable and easy and a day where you can just relax and be grateful.

I can’t just insert myself into in a situation like that – no matter how welcoming my hosts are – because while I may not be a stranger to them, I’m a stranger to their rituals. Whether I’m there or not makes no difference to their experience of it, regardless of their affection. I’m welcomed, but redundant. And for me, I’m looking in on something that I once had myself and the reminder of it only grates. There’s no way that the Christmas celebrations of others can nourish me in the same way that our own celebrations once did, and looking upon it the absence grows keener. It’s easier for me to do nothing than it is to pretend otherwise.

I hope that doesn’t sound churlish. I’m grateful to those who think of me at this time of year. And it probably sounds sadder than it should. I’m aware of what I’m missing, and it gives me a hollow feeling. I can hear the kids next door now. But it’s only what I’m missing that ails me, not what I have.

It’s a gentle feeling, more a sense of waste than it is of loss. I know it could be many times worse, and know there are many thousands who have nothing on this day. And I know that there are firefighters out there giving up their Christmas with family to fight fires on behalf of all of us.

I’m up now and the few, modern rituals I have are being played out. Once I was dressed, I took Rigby for his walk. On Christmas morning I normally take him down the beach, but the railway crossing has been blocked off. We walked the other way, looping back up to the main road. Yesterday, it was chaos. There were traffic jams coming out the supermarket carpark. Today the streets were empty. It was quiet. The odd car went by, a single pedestrian, and all the shops bar one were closed.

I’ve since had a piece of egg-nog and white chocolate cheesecake for breakfast while I opened my present (from my nephews and niece). I gave Rigby his Christmas bone. I might open a bottle of bubbles in a moment. As usual, I’ll use the occasion to cook up a feast. After that, unlike previous years, I plan to work – to write. Then it will be Boxing Day, and catching up with the woman who invited me to be with her today.

Unfortunately, my plans to go down Wye River later in the week have been aborted as my dog-minder had to fly out abruptly to visit her sick father. Instead I’ll get my rest and read plenty and write, and may even go onto work for a day. I have no interest in NYE at this stage – I would’ve been away for that – but I’m sure I’ll rouse myself to some effort. My main priority is to recharge my batteries, and maybe even finish the final draft of my first novel. You never know though, anything could happen.

Merry Christmas to you all. I hope your heart is full to bursting.

Free days


I woke this morning after a good nights sleep with the rain falling in a gentle, steady hush. That was a couple of hours ago, and it’s rained for most of that time since. Today is a free day, a public holiday with nothing I must do or anything I must be. Together it made for an easy peace of mind as went about my holiday rituals – coffee in bed with a book and an iPad, the dog close by, nestled into the curve of my body as I sat up on my side, or leaning against my back behind me.

As always Rigby is alert to everything even with his eyes closed. He knows the routines and the little tells he reacts to immediately – the picking up of my glasses from the bedside table, the snap shut of a book when I have finished reading, the book being replaced on the pile beside the bed – and he is up immediately, standing on the bedclothes with his head turned to me, before leaping down to the floor and turning my way expectantly. It’s the dregs of the coffee he’s after, the dregs he drinks every time cleaning out the coffee mug, just as he has for many years since. Both of us are creatures of familiar routine.

It feels fine to be free of obligation, and I wish there were more days like this. Though there is nothing I must do, I know what I will do. I’ll read a little, write for a while, and towards late afternoon I will cook. With the food in the oven or on the stove top slowly cooking I’ll fire up a hot bath and laze there reading my bath book while Rigby attends me bath side, licking the soap from my skin as he’s so inclined. I’ll wash my hair and shave my face in anticipation of the working week. For a few moments I’ll reflect on this and that: some of my best thinking comes in the bath.

Then it will get dark. I’ll eat my dinner with the TV on and by then I’ll be resigned to the fact that I must work tomorrow. Depending on how the day has been – particularly, how the writing has gone – I’ll feel either satisfied or searching for more. In either case, my mind may be busy with thoughts and conjectures. I’ll wonder at things, at words and probably at life itself, then possibly the latest footy scores. With work ahead, I’ll be aware of the things I intend to do. I start refreshed, as I do every week, as if this week I can change things, that the frustrations I’m victim of will clear, as if all I need do is keep going, persist, stay true and strong. Bending to the situation is not a consideration, and never has been. I’ll succeed on my terms, or fail, but it’s not obstinacy that informs that but irrepressible optimism.

Yesterday was a different day. We had arranged to drive down Red Hill way and attend the annual Winter Wine thingy. We’ve done this before, though for many years. I caught a train with JV to Frankston were we were picked by Donna on the way through, a couple of her friends with her. We spent the afternoon going from one winery to the next, though fewer than I hoped for. Navigation let us down once or twice, and a late, extended lunch at T’Gallant meant that by the time we left most of the openings had closed. I missed out on Manton’s Creek and Aringa Estate and one or two others I wanted to attend, but never mind.

I got home near 8pm last night, glad to be home and with Rigby again.

This week


I love a social life, but I also crave ‘me’ time. I love to be out among the bright lights eating and drinking well, talking, laughing, flirting, but I also cherish the quiet moments when I can curl up with a good book, a good movie, or listening to tunes whipping up some culinary feast. There are days I’m happy to see no-one, do nothing, and many days I barely walk out the door. I love the fizz and pop of a night out on the town, but in my heart H is a solo beast who plays at being one of the pack.

Last week was a social week. I was out for dinner and drinks twice and had a great old time basking in the balmy evenings and downing pisco sours. Another night a friend visited me and we ended up at a wine bar. And on another occasion, I drove an hour to get to the other side of town to have lunch with cousins and my aunt and uncle in the salubrious Eltham Hotel.

This week I look forward to being sedate. It’s the last week before I go back to work. I’ve achieved a lot this break but there are still things on my list. I’ll tidy them up and once they’re done what I’ve got left is a week of reading and writing.

It’s a warm, sunny day. I’ve just come from coffee up the road and posting a card to my nephew for his birthday (due to arrive before it for a change). I’ll give Rigby a walk later but otherwise, I’m home for the day.

These are the things I must do: update this blog; scan a few more pics; call up the doc about an ultrasound I had yesterday (suspect there’s a problem with my toe); call up the local salvos about donating some stuff; pickle or preserve something; and take my old massage shop manager to the doc tomorrow. Jobs something in there as well (have a live opportunity with NBN but don’t have the telco experience).

I have mixed in this last week of my leave. In some ways, it will be harder than ever returning to work. It could have gone either way, but in this case my absence has solidified my feelings about the office being unprofessional and slapdash. I wish it wasn’t so. I’m disappointed nothing more substantial has popped up in these weeks. There’s not a lot about. If I’m patient something will eventuate, however.

Have I resolved anything in myself? You have to understand I live an intensely interior life, especially when I’m writing. My real life refracts my writing experience, and vice versa. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I want to write. That’s especially true of this book, which has a dense psychological perspective. I want to get it right, though I know it instinctively. Once I write it out I often find that instinctive knowledge becomes conscious knowledge. The act of writing drags up things from deep within me I sense more than know. When it hits the light it becomes true in a way and I can look upon the written word and understand it for myself (sometimes I think there’s a form of automatic writing at work). I reflect upon it as an individual. It informs my perspective and potentially my behaviours.

What I’m saying is that while I’ve given little direct thought to my situation it is thrown into relief by what I write. It has a heft I cannot shrug. In a way it feels like a dark secret – I am the man who writes this; I carry this within me.

It’s little wonder that writing is therapeutic for me, but as yet I don’t know the fullness of what it means.