After an unspectacular end to the case of the locked-in tourist when the door was shoulder-nudged from the outside side by a knight on a shiny scooter, I emerged into the sunshine to discover the fabric emporiums in Denpasar’s Jalan Sulawesi and a woman with a sewing machine just a few houses down this raggedy little street.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Locked in, in a dress I can’t unzip.
It took so long to zip it up. Physical issues usually preclude wearing this dress when travelling solo, but I do like this dress, so I persisted.
It is so hot my skin prickles from the inside out. The ankles are swelling, the skin on my calves is stretched to breaking point and I’m remembering an elegant and skinny lower leg area I didn't inherit from mum. I don’t feel like looking at that manuscript, and don’t tell me not to worry. I know all about this stupid process. I’ve read Stephen King’s On Writing four times (written, interestingly, when he was locked inside; to be precise, after he was squashed by a lorry while out walking); I’ve started Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and her early pages confirm that I’m totally, awesomely on track when it comes to dithering.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
I had a penny-dropping moment once and it was blinding. A moment when you felt compelled to look around and check that no one else saw the obvious creep up and slap you. I was in a cafe, staring up at one of those ridiculously high counters. Why did I have to stand on tippy toes to pay for my coffee? Up there, three plastic containers were stacked on top of each other. Small, medium, large; plastic, environmentally catastrophic. They were filled with rice, with the prices handwritten on the lids in thick black texta.