I am back in London. Washed out light on a dragon breath morning. A quarrelling parliament of geese on the canal. Cold rain washing the face.
Given the problems I had with flying – blood, pain and inappropriate unconsciousness – I cannot return to Australia for a few months. My heart is back in blue haze mountains, Balmain’s Royal Oak Hotel and skies intent on mimicking the opening sequence of The Simpsons. The best part of me is dreaming under different stars.
English Dreaming, English Rain needs plenty of backfilling. There are tales of songlines, red dirt and hallucinating dinosaurs on the Pacific Highway to be told. However, there are also magazine articles, proposals and a book my editor needs yesterday to be written. Entries may be sporadic and hidden away in months already gone, but they will happen. It is just right now, the words I need to write are destined for elsewhere.
