Laying on my unmade bed.

Goannas prowling for eggs, Dona and Sumer, from Russel and Michal hen house, determine to lay their eggs on my tiny neck pillow, rolled up wool.

Moved my library to the Humpy for sorting out. But I never get far when I pick up a book I remember fondly from my city years. I remember reading Guy De Maupassant on London tubes on my hour journey to work in Joe Lyon’s ice cream factory in Greenford,  Lyons a fore bear of Nigella Lawson.

De Maupassant’s  stories could easily be translated to the different communities here, funny, lots of eating and the hidden vices of people, always fascinating.

So this morning I started a short story based on my first arrival to Sydney as a 17 year old, a time I learnt the harsh reality of homelessness in a city far different than a gentile at that time, Auckland where I had lived briefly.

And the Kings Cross fountain, smaller than what I imagined from photos in the Australian Post available in NZ. Everyone from NZ visiting had to see the fountain.

But the cheapest accommodation available was filthy and cock roach ridden.

The surrounding park benches hosted a fascinating community in its own micro culture, to the old man who played a violin with budgies climbing over him to the handsome Greek male hustler. I went there every night when I could. Eyes wide to this vibrant heart of Kings Cross back then in the 60s and 70s.

A green salad last night. Jayne made an orange juice and oregano dressing with olive oil and mustard. The garden is starting to grow.

 

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