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Almost exactly 60 years ago George Orwell published a wonderful essay called, Some Thoughts on the Common Toad... The point of the essay was to insist ‘that the pleasures of spring are available to everybody, and cost nothing’.
Towards the end of a bleak, mid-February Friday, the wind started to groan through the narrow, village streets. Shutters creaked and in the valley below a filmy curtain materialised over the vines and blurred the outlines of the farmhouses.
We met as usual ... and some half hour or so into our conversation I said that while travelling into town I’d had a ‘terrific idea’ for a short story.
Pundits who were left gasping by the announcements of Colin (‘Cry me a river’) Barnett would have been less surprised if they’d read the last issue of the Okotsk Institute Journal of Research into Inexplicable Public Behaviours.
Cab cultures, not to mention the cabbies themselves, vary widely around the world. The Australian habit of hopping into the front seat with the hack and exchanging a cheery word is not generally welcome in Paris.
‘Could you tell me how to get to Cudgegong, mate?’
The timelessness of great art is not just a matter of it still being around every time you happen to look.
David is making mud bricks. A small, young wallaby watches him from less than five metres away.
Between 1 January and 1 October this year I slept in at least 19 different beds.
I see that the Brits are about to bite the quirt and outlaw fox hunting. Only in England would the pursuit of the common fox threaten to divide the nation.
Brian Matthews has words with Julian Burnside’s Word Watching, and Don Watson’s Weasel Words.
When February dawned last year, I had been living in a small Provençal village for about a month.
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