That’s the sound of me hitting the wall. I knew it was coming, but I suspect it was Easter finally did me in. The idea of not being on Kangaroo Island sitting outside and staring at the full moon at night, of not walking on the beach during the day, and not sitting on my lounge and calling for another cup of tea. Being away from that, it’s enough to get anybody down.

We were at Khaladiya Mall yesterday, doing the week’s grocery shopping which always gets me down, because it’s not the Adelaide Central Market, is it, and I bought a copy of The New Yorker from BooksPlus and sat at Dome with a chocolate brownie and ice cream and that always makes me feel a bit better except that all I could do was look despondently at the Contents page and say to the mister, ‘All those actual writers, they’re all writing.’

‘Why don’t you start writing again?’ the mister asked, then looked at me and shook his head at himself for even voicing the question. Sometimes, I wish I lived inside his head. And I imagine sometimes, so does he.

I was back on the lounge last night. Crying of course. The mister brought me some chopped up fruit and stroked the top of my head, and I tried so hard not to notice that the apple was neither crisp nor cold. I told myself, Tomorrow I will think less about the things that aren’t and more about the things that are.

I didn’t quite manage it today, but tomorrow I’ll be back on top. And if not tomorrow, the day after that for sure.