We check out at 11 and as I write, I am on a 3.5 hour flight to Adelaide.
We change time zones. Again. For me the 6th time in a month.
2.5 hours forward.
I didn’t even know you could move times in fractions.
First impressions and I feel lifted by the look of this city.
I am told it is a student town and is full of creatives.
It also has, apparently, an historical reputation for prodigious murderers.
As my infant son once said to me ‘He looks like a very kind stranger’
The few people I have had occasion to pass the time of day with, mostly in lifts, have indeed been jovial and warm. Nice faces.
The band and crew and G were meeting downstairs for drinks and dinner.
I am back to the responsible silent routine.
Besides, I favour my own company tonight and instead walk out looking for some food and to breathe some air.
I find a road rammed packed with restaurants. Each abutting the next.
Mostly Chinese, it seems.
I fancy a Chinese but the choice is so great I am befuddled.
I pick up a Spag Bol instead.
I don’t know why.
I’m not hungry.
It punctuates a travel day.
I am overwhelmed by the love I have landed to on my social media pages, and messages of care from dear friends and kin.
I want to thank everyone individually, but it makes me feel I am fishing.
Attention seeking.
The knowledge however resounds in my chest.
Human kindnesses.
They exist.
This is my diary so it is fitting that I note the valleys as well as the peaks.
I have always known mountain ranges.
I can’t bear the pretension that all is seamlessly shiny in a life.
At the same time, my problems are very small ale indeed in the scheme of things.
I feel low only in contrast to all the highs I have been gifted.
To some people we are not stuff to be collected and I am reminded of the difference.
My heart is full of love.
Gratitude.
I put that in my ruck sack and will carry it with me.
I pick at my food and open the wine that has from some quarter been put in my room for me.
Thank you Bacchus. You have impeccable timing.
This morning I peel myself from my pit. Clean my teeth and pull on a hat to spare the brush.
I walk.
I left my favourite Pink Floyd tour shirt in Perth.
That’s annoying.
I thought I could buy something similar.
Something that travels as well, but I don’t know the streets and that’s that.
I see a shop with Birkenstocks.
Mine are crumbling and I live in them, so I pick up a pair, dump the old and feel like I’ve had a makeover. That’ll do.
They are very popular on the catwalk, the nice lady says.
Like I’d give a fuck about that. Looking, as I do, every part the itinerant.
I find a coffee shop and buy scrambled eggs.
Bizarrely they taste of garlic and I can see a tide in the oil that they bathe in.
Tour food is making my trousers very tight.
I need to make hungry my friend.
I’m running out of clothes that fit and leaving the ones that do in far flung corners.
Right. Back to your room.
Get your game on, Mo.
You’ve a show tonight.
Focus.
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