There’s a moment when you’re in the sea and you realise you’re not okay. It just materialises. It isn’t there, the thought, then it is and you know the force pulling you back is stronger than you are. There’s nothing below you and two-feet of white water bearing down on you and not a thing to hold on to.
Harry knew it too. The moment we realised he let out a cry. I know, I said, I’m trying.
There was a man on the beach with his kids so I waved that straight-armed wave of panic. He looked and I waved again then he was there. I gave him Harry. I can’t, I said.
I got half way home before I almost cried. But there was music on the radio and Friday afternoon traffic around us and we were fine. It's just, you know.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
I've got your stuff: An open blog post of apology
A selection of the 15 million books I've borrowed, suffering Stockholm syndrome.
There are a stack of things I can do quickly: run to just miss a train, eat tacos, get to the head of the beer queue. But one thing I'm never going to do is get your stuff back to you in a reasonable time. I'm sorry, it's bad, I feel bad about it. But age has not wearied my capacity to hold on to your stuff.
Books are my main problem. They're just so damned interesting and I want to read them all and you have so many! And you're so kind and sharing and offer them to me, and I snap them up greedily, knowing they won't see you again until your children have left home.
You may not even remember I have them? I recently bumped into someone who had lent me a Jonathan Franzen book a while back. I stuttered something like, "Hey I've started the Franzen! Yeah finally, I had this thing I had to finish but now my evenings are clear and I've read the first 30 pages and I'm really enjoying it (the language is great!) and I should have it finished and back to you by..." At which point I kind of trailed off and she looked at me like I was a cat short of a crazy lady then muttered something about a meeting she had to be at. So Franzen lady, I'm sorry, your stuff is with me.
So my question is, should I work my way through all the books people have lent me (project-style), or just return them wholesale and unread and add myself to some global 'Do Not Lend' black list? What would you do?
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Because it's an election year
I've been thinking about doing some kind of low-brow election year commentary, just for shits and giggles, but I've been a little intimidated, frankly, with all the political smarts of politically smart people flying around.
But after the fun of today, what with Crean and Gillard and the leadership challenge that never was, I reckon an untrained monkey has as much chance of making any sense of it as anyone else so what the hey, why not have a crack.
So what do I bring as a political commentator? Absolutely nothing. But I do promise to:
- re-watch The West Wing
- drink enough beer to make Hunter ST proud
- bring everything back to the carbon tax
- never, ever say 'Juliar' even if I really, really want to (so lame, so very, very lame. So very lame.)
- base my political analysis on fortune cookies and horoscopes
- hold my suburb's third, maybe fourth, least sucky election night party.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Wallet, where the bloody hell are you?
So I lost my wallet on the weekend which is really, really annoying.
Of all the shit in my bag, I would have preferred to have lost:
So because it's late and I'm grumpy and possibly a little over-tired, here's everything I blame for me losing my wallet:
Of all the shit in my bag, I would have preferred to have lost:
- any, or all, of my 16 million pens
- my high-tech, secret-squirrel work pass
- my double-barrelled pencil sharpener (seriously the best sharpener ever, which I have carried with me (I shit you not) for eight, maybe nine, years)
- any of my many USBs, replete with awesome blackmail-worthy images.
So because it's late and I'm grumpy and possibly a little over-tired, here's everything I blame for me losing my wallet:
- The two boys on the train who were smoking this morning. Far out they were dumb
- My darling friend Kate who continues to live in Canberra when I would much prefer her to live in Sydney
- Big Brother, what's that shit about?
- Petrol prices
- Climate change
- Time machines (lack of)
- Rota virus
- The cost of living
- Capitalism
- Lenin (premature death of)
- Abdominators
- Chumps (generally)
- People who hose their concrete
- Unequal pay rates
- Sexism
- Plastic Christmas trees
- And Tony Abbott. He just out and out sucks dogs balls.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Is that a guitar in your lap or are you just happy to see me?
I have just started learning the guitar, and goodness me! Isn't it a marvellous instrument? Not only do I feel like Leonard Cohen (I sound like shit but in my head it's all Cohen) but I'm developing suitably rock-god-like calluses.
This is all very well and good, these calluses, and I am deriving a great deal of pleasure showing friends and loved ones my toughened digits (tapping them on benchtops, desks, any hard surface, "See look! Look! Can't feel a thing!"), but I'm beginning to realise that with every gain to my hardening fingertips there is an equal and opposite loss of everyday functionality.
You see, I'm discovering that wicked string-stopping calluses mean no fine fingertip sensitity.
This may sound like a small thing but the consequences are potentially massive (or at least very slightly life-changing in a handful of mildly inconsequential ways).
You see, I can no longer use chopsticks gracefully, or peel grapes, or pick lint off my clothes.
Or type properly, or do up bottons with aplomb. And my days as a hand-model? Over, baby.
I know what you're thinking, I probably couldn't do these things beforehand and you'd be absolutely right, but now that I really can't I'm starting to wonder what other inconsequential things I've been doing on a daily basis (like a chump) that I can get away with not doing, like working, cooking, vacuuming (occasionally), parenting, you know, participating meaningfully in society and shit.
So tonight I'm giving it all up for the couch, a glass of red and my guitar. Every once in a while it's good to be me.
This is all very well and good, these calluses, and I am deriving a great deal of pleasure showing friends and loved ones my toughened digits (tapping them on benchtops, desks, any hard surface, "See look! Look! Can't feel a thing!"), but I'm beginning to realise that with every gain to my hardening fingertips there is an equal and opposite loss of everyday functionality.
You see, I'm discovering that wicked string-stopping calluses mean no fine fingertip sensitity.
This may sound like a small thing but the consequences are potentially massive (or at least very slightly life-changing in a handful of mildly inconsequential ways).
You see, I can no longer use chopsticks gracefully, or peel grapes, or pick lint off my clothes.
Or type properly, or do up bottons with aplomb. And my days as a hand-model? Over, baby.
I know what you're thinking, I probably couldn't do these things beforehand and you'd be absolutely right, but now that I really can't I'm starting to wonder what other inconsequential things I've been doing on a daily basis (like a chump) that I can get away with not doing, like working, cooking, vacuuming (occasionally), parenting, you know, participating meaningfully in society and shit.
So tonight I'm giving it all up for the couch, a glass of red and my guitar. Every once in a while it's good to be me.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
So I went sailing on the Endeavour and stuff
Now that the histrionics of my last post have passed, I can get on with actually telling you about my trip on the Endeavour.
And what holiday re-telling is complete without a turgid holiday snap slide-show? None that's what, so here we find ourselves, turgid slide-show and all. So I entreat you to settle down with a nice cup of tea (or a beer if it's after 10am). Ready? Great, let's get started.
Slide number one, please.
Like all good holidays on the high seas, mine started with an interstate trip to the library. But not just any library, the National Library in Canberra which very conveniently happened to be showing an exhibition on Patrick White the day I was passing through (en route Sydney to Eden, where the Endeavour was docked).
My darling parents very conveniently live in Canberra so accompanied me to the exhibition where we nerded up a storm then ate Nicoise salads and drank wine at the library's cafe. It was a very, very good several hours.
After the Patrick White nerdgasm subsided I got back on the bus to Eden. We rattled south through Canberra then on to Cooma, where we stopped for a meal break.
In Cooma it was inhumanly cold; the little sign above says six degrees. I would have taken a better photo but my fingers froze so this was all I could do. Sorry about that.
We eventually made it to Eden at some late hour. I had the nine-hours-on-a-bus crazies:
But sent my family this photo instead, so they wouldn't worry:
Then I slept and had a nightmare about being stuck on a bus for nine hours and having to stop at Cooma and freeze my arse off and then getting the crazies in a budget hotel room in Eden (no wait).
The next morning started with instant coffee (which we won't speak of), then, goodness, this:
And look! This:
Is it not the most beautiful boat you've ever seen? I think so too.
On the boat there was lots of rope.
We eased it and hauled it, then we coiled it. Rope is cool.
When we weren't on watch (four hours on, eight hours off) we were scoffing food down in the teeny weeny galley (or, more likely, playing cards):
Or trying to get some sleep in the hammocks:
Or up on deck enjoying the wonder of it all:
[Thank you, dear crew member Foremast Number Six, for helping me climb aloft. You rock Mr P.]
Despite the sleep deprivation, the non-surfeit of showers, the sometimes-we-work toilets and the constant rolling of the boat under our feet, coming home was very hard and I wasn't at all sure I wanted the voyage to end. Sailing into Sydney harbour (almost) made the end bearable:
And after a week at sea nothing, absolutely freakin' nothing, could have tasted better than this did:
Where to from here? My small boy and I were out on the ferries again the following Sunday, and I'm busily planning my next trip into the great blue. Huzzah.
And what holiday re-telling is complete without a turgid holiday snap slide-show? None that's what, so here we find ourselves, turgid slide-show and all. So I entreat you to settle down with a nice cup of tea (or a beer if it's after 10am). Ready? Great, let's get started.
Slide number one, please.
Like all good holidays on the high seas, mine started with an interstate trip to the library. But not just any library, the National Library in Canberra which very conveniently happened to be showing an exhibition on Patrick White the day I was passing through (en route Sydney to Eden, where the Endeavour was docked).
My darling parents very conveniently live in Canberra so accompanied me to the exhibition where we nerded up a storm then ate Nicoise salads and drank wine at the library's cafe. It was a very, very good several hours.
After the Patrick White nerdgasm subsided I got back on the bus to Eden. We rattled south through Canberra then on to Cooma, where we stopped for a meal break.
In Cooma it was inhumanly cold; the little sign above says six degrees. I would have taken a better photo but my fingers froze so this was all I could do. Sorry about that.
We eventually made it to Eden at some late hour. I had the nine-hours-on-a-bus crazies:
But sent my family this photo instead, so they wouldn't worry:
Then I slept and had a nightmare about being stuck on a bus for nine hours and having to stop at Cooma and freeze my arse off and then getting the crazies in a budget hotel room in Eden (no wait).
The next morning started with instant coffee (which we won't speak of), then, goodness, this:
And look! This:
Is it not the most beautiful boat you've ever seen? I think so too.
On the boat there was lots of rope.
We eased it and hauled it, then we coiled it. Rope is cool.
When we weren't on watch (four hours on, eight hours off) we were scoffing food down in the teeny weeny galley (or, more likely, playing cards):
Or trying to get some sleep in the hammocks:
Or up on deck enjoying the wonder of it all:
[Thank you, dear crew member Foremast Number Six, for helping me climb aloft. You rock Mr P.]
Despite the sleep deprivation, the non-surfeit of showers, the sometimes-we-work toilets and the constant rolling of the boat under our feet, coming home was very hard and I wasn't at all sure I wanted the voyage to end. Sailing into Sydney harbour (almost) made the end bearable:
And after a week at sea nothing, absolutely freakin' nothing, could have tasted better than this did:
Where to from here? My small boy and I were out on the ferries again the following Sunday, and I'm busily planning my next trip into the great blue. Huzzah.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
The worst thing about writing a nonsense blog is that every now and again life slaps you in the face and what you want to write about doesn't fit the frippery you've been throwing around.
This, of course, comes with the danger that you're taking yourself too seriously and there's nothing worse than that (really, absolutely nothing).
So what to say? I want to tell you that I sailed on the Endeavour for a week and it was the best week of my life and the worst. It was physically hard, mentally hard, cold, wet, rushed, panicked, incomprehensible.
But it was also ridiculously fun, other worldly, companionable, magnificent, irreplaceable, unrepeatable.
For the first time in my life I get this:
There is no static middle ground, really. Who are we kidding? We swing right across the spectrum in everything we do. And I like that. If we didn't, how would we know we're alive?
Time to sign off before you start snorting in derision at me.
This, of course, comes with the danger that you're taking yourself too seriously and there's nothing worse than that (really, absolutely nothing).
So what to say? I want to tell you that I sailed on the Endeavour for a week and it was the best week of my life and the worst. It was physically hard, mentally hard, cold, wet, rushed, panicked, incomprehensible.
But it was also ridiculously fun, other worldly, companionable, magnificent, irreplaceable, unrepeatable.
For the first time in my life I get this:
There is no static middle ground, really. Who are we kidding? We swing right across the spectrum in everything we do. And I like that. If we didn't, how would we know we're alive?
Time to sign off before you start snorting in derision at me.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Stop wining [yes wining!] and do my tax?
So Mr Kettle is heading off to Melbourne for a long weekend at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Go Mr Kettle!
Since cloning technology has not (surprisingly, yes?) advanced so far as to enable me to be in both Melbourne living it up and Sydney raising the next generation I find myself trying to decide how best to spend the weekend here in Sydney.
Should I:
And when you're done with that, can someone please explain to me what the fuck happened with the Greens today?
Since cloning technology has not (surprisingly, yes?) advanced so far as to enable me to be in both Melbourne living it up and Sydney raising the next generation I find myself trying to decide how best to spend the weekend here in Sydney.
Should I:
- Buy half a dozen bottles of wine and invite some friends over for a few hours of crapping on and ad libbed performance poetry, or
- Do my 2010/11 tax?
And when you're done with that, can someone please explain to me what the fuck happened with the Greens today?
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Once-diligent blogger 'got peckish', forgot to post
Goodness me I've become the world's least-posting blogger.
Luckily there are a few oft-searched words in posts from earlier years so to my delight this site still pops up in the Googles every now and then.
And to my extra delight the most commonly searched terms that lead people here are 'nice boys' and 'good hair,' which I'm cool with (the search phrase that does actually worry me a little is 'how to survive a dust storm'; true story. There really is nothing here that can help you if you've got a dust storm bearing down on you. Please! Leave now! I don't know shit about sand!).
Anyhoo, so here we are in April already. While it may look like I've completely neglected this site for months now it's not entirely true that I have. You see, I've been annoying dear friends and family taking photos of, well, bloody everything, all with the intention of posting them here. I've stopped meals, halted martinis mid-sip, made people pull over, ignored dear companions for whole chunks of evenings while I've set up just the right shot... All for what? For nought, because I've posted none of them here.
Urgh, I really am the world's worst blogger (and possibly friend/daughter/Mahjong partner too).
So, time to re-engage. Here's a little something we can talk about tomorrow. See you then?
Luckily there are a few oft-searched words in posts from earlier years so to my delight this site still pops up in the Googles every now and then.
And to my extra delight the most commonly searched terms that lead people here are 'nice boys' and 'good hair,' which I'm cool with (the search phrase that does actually worry me a little is 'how to survive a dust storm'; true story. There really is nothing here that can help you if you've got a dust storm bearing down on you. Please! Leave now! I don't know shit about sand!).
Anyhoo, so here we are in April already. While it may look like I've completely neglected this site for months now it's not entirely true that I have. You see, I've been annoying dear friends and family taking photos of, well, bloody everything, all with the intention of posting them here. I've stopped meals, halted martinis mid-sip, made people pull over, ignored dear companions for whole chunks of evenings while I've set up just the right shot... All for what? For nought, because I've posted none of them here.
Urgh, I really am the world's worst blogger (and possibly friend/daughter/Mahjong partner too).
So, time to re-engage. Here's a little something we can talk about tomorrow. See you then?
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Christmas* wrap
* I'm not sure if it's possible (or advisable?) to begin a post with an asterisk but look! It's where we find ourselves. I do hope you'll forgive me.
I've called on the asterisk in a half-arsed attempt to excuse away my laziness.
You see, I'm more (as in entirely) an atheistic type so wishing everyone a 'merry Christmas' is a bit non-sensical. But as we have just returned from a week interstate and I'm feeling, well, lazy the prospect of writing a few nuanced, sensitively worded paragraphs outlining a few nuanced and sensitive thoughts on the significance of multi- and non-denominational end-of-year celebrations is entirely beyond me.
Let us, in the absence of such commentary, agree to agree that there is something very lovely about getting to the end of the year, about eating wildly excessive amounts of food, and about watching the cricket (just joking Ramon. I haven't actually watched any cricket!).
So in the true lazy-montage-spirit of all B-grade films from the 1980s, here's a bunch of photos from my end of year/wildly excessive food/non-cricket celebrations.
There were martinis with lychee (singular) and blueberries (no way!).
There were a-happenings at the beach (where does the water end and the sky begin, and etc.).
There were ridiculously happy children at water parks.
And Christmas carols, performed ped-style.
There was a long discussion about which was the worst sheet music to admit to owning from childhood (our vote was tied; your thoughts?).
And another long discussion about 'couth' and 'uncouth', for which the Penguin dictionary was absolutely no help whatsoever (at least there were prawns).
There were neighbourhood Christmas lights by people with really, really too much time.
And of course, wanky hipstamatic photos taken willy nilly by lasses who really do know better.
There were badly framed Christmas trees, with surprise elbows!
And curious tins of biscuits at the local supermarket...
...in even more curiously labelled sections.
But best of all, there were lots and lots of happy, blurry photos (aww shit).
Now tell me about your break while I quietly vomit about the sentimentality of my own.
I've called on the asterisk in a half-arsed attempt to excuse away my laziness.
You see, I'm more (as in entirely) an atheistic type so wishing everyone a 'merry Christmas' is a bit non-sensical. But as we have just returned from a week interstate and I'm feeling, well, lazy the prospect of writing a few nuanced, sensitively worded paragraphs outlining a few nuanced and sensitive thoughts on the significance of multi- and non-denominational end-of-year celebrations is entirely beyond me.
Let us, in the absence of such commentary, agree to agree that there is something very lovely about getting to the end of the year, about eating wildly excessive amounts of food, and about watching the cricket (just joking Ramon. I haven't actually watched any cricket!).
So in the true lazy-montage-spirit of all B-grade films from the 1980s, here's a bunch of photos from my end of year/wildly excessive food/non-cricket celebrations.
There were martinis with lychee (singular) and blueberries (no way!).
There were a-happenings at the beach (where does the water end and the sky begin, and etc.).
There were ridiculously happy children at water parks.
And Christmas carols, performed ped-style.
There was a long discussion about which was the worst sheet music to admit to owning from childhood (our vote was tied; your thoughts?).
And another long discussion about 'couth' and 'uncouth', for which the Penguin dictionary was absolutely no help whatsoever (at least there were prawns).
There were neighbourhood Christmas lights by people with really, really too much time.
And of course, wanky hipstamatic photos taken willy nilly by lasses who really do know better.
There were badly framed Christmas trees, with surprise elbows!
And curious tins of biscuits at the local supermarket...
...in even more curiously labelled sections.
But best of all, there were lots and lots of happy, blurry photos (aww shit).
Now tell me about your break while I quietly vomit about the sentimentality of my own.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Completely self-indulgent photos from my trip to Melbourne (because I can, that's why)
So I went to Melbourne on the weekend, and while I love my family dearly and couldn't live without them I would also be ok staying in Melbourne for ever and ever and never leaving. Ahem.
Anyway, I had such a lovely time. It was so good that I took a whole bunch of wanky hipstamatic photos and I would dearly love to share them with you. Will you indulge me a moment or two?
If you do not have a moment for such indulgences I thank you for joining me to this point and I wish you well for the rest of your day.
If you do have a moment, hurray. Let us revel in the awesomeness that is Melbourne together.
So, photo the first:
I think there's something in this for all of us. Yeah that's right, Melbourne's Environmental Management Team totally sucks. I took this photo around 8:30am Saturday morning; what kind of city leaves this sort of poetic detritus from the previous night's revelry lying around until that time of the morning? Sheesh.
This might be too small to see? The sign says, 'Captains of Industry: Gentleman's Outfitters and Cafe,' which I liked very much.
This shit is about coffee and ukuleles. Oooohhhh yeahhhhhh.
Gills Diner and The Commercial Bakery do the best of everything ever. You should go there.
Check out those cheeky tomatoes on the middle shelf. Poking their tongues out. I say.
Next suit I buy (following the next offer of employment I receive) I'm buying these cuff links for sure (unless I get a job at The Commercial Bakery, in which case I'm gonna get me some cheeky tomato cuff links).
So I went to the National Gallery of Victoria to see the Mad Square exhibition. Firstly, I still can't figure out how it can be the 'national' gallery of Victoria, and secondly, which is sexier: the hairy arm-pitted woman in the banner or the man-in-the-checkered-shirt's arse?
This is the other side of the gallery entrance. As you can see I accidentally bumped the filter on hipstamatic so we somehow landed in Copenhagen in 1957. Who knew time travel was possible with a $1.99 app?
These teeny weeny chairs were on display in the gallery shop. I have a thing for tiny chairs; I only wish there was time to go into it now but fortunately not. This is a shit photo and I couldn't get it to work but the tiny chairs were magnificent.
This was lunch at the gallery. I'm embarrassed to say I wolfed it down (and I may have sculled the wine too). It was the tiny chairs what did it to me.
This is the nicest piece of street art I've seen anywhere ever.
The framing on this kills me but what's not to love about a sign for an ocular prosthetist? Nothing, that's what. (And wouldn't you love to meet Mr Russell?)
And so we come to one of the trip's golden highlights: beer, lemons and chips with Ramon, Melba and Mr E from The Site Formally Known As. You three characters bloody rock. I was very pleased to meet you.
Then surprise jazz gig! With crepes and sangria! Who knew crepes and sangria went together? Well they don't, so no-one I guess, but the jazz was good.
Post-jazz it was Salman Rushdie and tempranillo at the Punch Lane Wine Bar. Fark. By the end of the night we three were totally best friends.
At closing time Salman and I stumbled along Bourke Street past our favourite bookshop in Melbourne, The Paperback Bookshop, where we bought the seventh edition of the Sleepers Almanac because we both love and support new Australian writing. Go Sleepers. Go Salman.
Sunday morning brought this, before anything else.
After a decent amount of time, Sunday morning also brought this: a chappy playing a 'hang' (Dave this is for you).
Then I met some darling friends for lunch and we planned a book we hope Littlefox Press at Alice & Co. will publish for us. I love Littlefox Press almost as much as I love tempranillo and Salman Rushdie.
There was more of the trip after that but I have clearly reached my wanky hipstamatic photo quota so will stop here. The end.
Anyway, I had such a lovely time. It was so good that I took a whole bunch of wanky hipstamatic photos and I would dearly love to share them with you. Will you indulge me a moment or two?
If you do not have a moment for such indulgences I thank you for joining me to this point and I wish you well for the rest of your day.
If you do have a moment, hurray. Let us revel in the awesomeness that is Melbourne together.
So, photo the first:
I think there's something in this for all of us. Yeah that's right, Melbourne's Environmental Management Team totally sucks. I took this photo around 8:30am Saturday morning; what kind of city leaves this sort of poetic detritus from the previous night's revelry lying around until that time of the morning? Sheesh.
This might be too small to see? The sign says, 'Captains of Industry: Gentleman's Outfitters and Cafe,' which I liked very much.
This shit is about coffee and ukuleles. Oooohhhh yeahhhhhh.
Gills Diner and The Commercial Bakery do the best of everything ever. You should go there.
Check out those cheeky tomatoes on the middle shelf. Poking their tongues out. I say.
Next suit I buy (following the next offer of employment I receive) I'm buying these cuff links for sure (unless I get a job at The Commercial Bakery, in which case I'm gonna get me some cheeky tomato cuff links).
So I went to the National Gallery of Victoria to see the Mad Square exhibition. Firstly, I still can't figure out how it can be the 'national' gallery of Victoria, and secondly, which is sexier: the hairy arm-pitted woman in the banner or the man-in-the-checkered-shirt's arse?
These teeny weeny chairs were on display in the gallery shop. I have a thing for tiny chairs; I only wish there was time to go into it now but fortunately not. This is a shit photo and I couldn't get it to work but the tiny chairs were magnificent.
This was lunch at the gallery. I'm embarrassed to say I wolfed it down (and I may have sculled the wine too). It was the tiny chairs what did it to me.
This is the nicest piece of street art I've seen anywhere ever.
The framing on this kills me but what's not to love about a sign for an ocular prosthetist? Nothing, that's what. (And wouldn't you love to meet Mr Russell?)
And so we come to one of the trip's golden highlights: beer, lemons and chips with Ramon, Melba and Mr E from The Site Formally Known As. You three characters bloody rock. I was very pleased to meet you.
At closing time Salman and I stumbled along Bourke Street past our favourite bookshop in Melbourne, The Paperback Bookshop, where we bought the seventh edition of the Sleepers Almanac because we both love and support new Australian writing. Go Sleepers. Go Salman.
Sunday morning brought this, before anything else.
After a decent amount of time, Sunday morning also brought this: a chappy playing a 'hang' (Dave this is for you).
Then I met some darling friends for lunch and we planned a book we hope Littlefox Press at Alice & Co. will publish for us. I love Littlefox Press almost as much as I love tempranillo and Salman Rushdie.
There was more of the trip after that but I have clearly reached my wanky hipstamatic photo quota so will stop here. The end.
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