Home, Home, Home 11.11am 09.08.2012
Without Prejudice
I fly home to Victoria on Saturday, having had the most fantastic winter anyone could have here in Queensland, The Sunshine State. Ah, the three months has gone by like a flash. The three months of sun and warmth and fun, all mixed up with writing and more writing and waiting for Winter depression to leave. And it has. I will miss the air and the sun and the simple things, like no traffic and lazy chats with next door neighbours. All ex Victorians who are wise enough to retire here, in the last Summers of their lives.
I will miss the mad parade of gerries on fast motorised wheel chairs burning up the inner streets on missions of their own secret delights. Maybe oranges are on sale at Woolies, or bananas and they are desperate to grab a bargain. Or maybe they just like going faster than old legs can carry them. The wind once more in their hair. The old men seem to take the most delight in going that little bit fast, hunched and curved over the steering, looking fast even if they are almost stock still.
The oldies are loves, they really are, no one wants to listen to them much but they have that look in their eye that says they have seen it all, done it all, and now play like children in the twilight of their days. I admire their tenacity and will and give them a cheery wave as I go by and they wink some of them, one solemn wink, as if to say,
"I'm still here"
I shall miss Redcliffe, it has been the best but home tickles at the base of my spine, saying, one word,
"Come"
Love Janette
I fly home to Victoria on Saturday, having had the most fantastic winter anyone could have here in Queensland, The Sunshine State. Ah, the three months has gone by like a flash. The three months of sun and warmth and fun, all mixed up with writing and more writing and waiting for Winter depression to leave. And it has. I will miss the air and the sun and the simple things, like no traffic and lazy chats with next door neighbours. All ex Victorians who are wise enough to retire here, in the last Summers of their lives.
I will miss the mad parade of gerries on fast motorised wheel chairs burning up the inner streets on missions of their own secret delights. Maybe oranges are on sale at Woolies, or bananas and they are desperate to grab a bargain. Or maybe they just like going faster than old legs can carry them. The wind once more in their hair. The old men seem to take the most delight in going that little bit fast, hunched and curved over the steering, looking fast even if they are almost stock still.
The oldies are loves, they really are, no one wants to listen to them much but they have that look in their eye that says they have seen it all, done it all, and now play like children in the twilight of their days. I admire their tenacity and will and give them a cheery wave as I go by and they wink some of them, one solemn wink, as if to say,
"I'm still here"
I shall miss Redcliffe, it has been the best but home tickles at the base of my spine, saying, one word,
"Come"
Love Janette
