Disgrace

The dog is on the table facing him. It has long kelpie ears. Very briefly he takes a silky ear in each hand, the greatest affection he can manage. Then he sends her to death just like the rest.

Jonquils wilt slowly in the kitchen. Freshness of first spring incompatible with the artificially heated lingering winter. There's a fridge half cleaned out and old food waiting to be discarded in bowls on the bench. There's Sarah Blasko and her bordering-on-jazz showcasing all the icy space of Sweden. There's Nick Cave and Mark Dapin sharing lunch. These two people intersect. Two people with whom separately I've failed to be able to string together any semblance of conversation.

There's a pineapple down from the north coast waiting to be made into a cake. Its carbon miles don't count because we were already going that way.

And Sarah Blasko wanting to be Feist wanting to be a bewitching someone from the sixties? I think she will get me in the end, though.

Cave says that the more incident free his personal life is, the more volatile, violent and explosive his imaginative life is.

I made a mental list of the things that make me happy and this was one of them.