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I’ve got a terrible confession to make
I don’t read many books. There, I’ve said it.
But how can this be? You’re always talking about the books you’re reading, have read or are going to read.
Ah yes, I read. They just aren’t usually Papery Print type things people think of as Books. The ones with the pretty covers, the pages you physically turn, use your favourite bookmark, and have that booky smell.
Because, unbelievable as seems, not everyone loves that booky smell. I hate it! It makes me feel ill. And even weirder is that I’m 100% anosmic. I can’t actually smell anything.
I’m sorry, that makes even less sense.
I know, right? It’s not so much the smell, as some sense of outgassing of fumes that comes from the ink and the pages. Especially older books, but once a book is more than a year or so old I can’t pick it up to read it. Books lent by friends, sorry no go. Library books, sayonara. So I read E-books on my Kindle, lots of E-books. I’ve also always got an audio book on the go to listen to in the car.
Yeah OK, that’s weird but I’m really losing interest, do you have a point?
I do, I do. Bear with me.
After finishing Pip Williams wonderful novel, The Dictionary of Lost Words, I went with my writer buddy, to a launch of Pip’s new book, The Book Binder of Jericho.
She spoke about the books, the process of writing, characters and all the delicious things that a new writer laps up. Then we lined up and had her sign our books. So of course I had to buy a Papery Print version.
I popped the book in my little pile of signed books on my writing desk, and then started listening to the audio book version.
But, somewhere along the way, the lure of the signed new copy started calling me. I began taking the book with me to read in quiet moments at a cafe, or in the car waiting for a child to finish an appointment.
Then it happened! One rainy Saturday, when the clouds couldn’t decide if they were above us, or amongst us, I lit the fire, and sat with my book and read. Later I made dinner then when everyone was in bed, I read again, in front of the fire, from my Papery Print Book. And I kept reading until I’d finished the last page.
And then I sat bereft that my book had finished. Those characters who felt like my friends were silenced. Never to speak to me again. Never to tell me of their most secret thoughts, never to share the description of their surroundings so that I felt like I was travelling through time and space.
So, that’s what you’re saying? You like print books again?
I don’t just like them though. I love them! I’ve fallen back in love with my first big crush and want to sing it from the mountain tops!
Ok, this is getting weird.
Yeah. Some will get it. Some won’t but they’ve stopped reading by now.
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Reflections Refraction
A tiny place of beauty
Solid and strong
yet so delicate and easily broken
To disappear inside the invisible walls
Could I stay inside forever?
Can you make me invisible?
A tiny place with no demands
without the constant fear
stabbing and turning like a knife
The light inside is bright and clear
Outside does not exist
Reflections, refraction, a white hole
Like Alice, you go, pass through,
tiny
tiny
tiny
ever so tiny
The knife misses now, it can’t find you, you are too small
too invisible
and
gone
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Strange Meat
Mmm, the cooking room smells good. But it usually does, compared to other rooms in the house. Something been cooking. I look around and sniff a lot, like a lot, lot. My nose is very confused. I see the meat and it looks tasty enough. It looks really tasty, it must be for me!
But when I bite down on it my mouth is very surprised by the soft fluffiness of the meat. Why is it so soft? Why doesn’t it taste like meat? I don’t need to chew it at all! I swallow it and then take another bite. Why am I taking another bite? I like it. It doesn’t taste like I expected but it taste good. Mmmmm. More, no one is looking, I gulp down two more bites. It’s sweet and moreish. But most things are moreish to me anyway, so that’s nothing new. Oh what’s that? A fly? No, a bee, leave that alone. Sore puffy face when I eat bees.
“Oh no! What have you done!” A very loud voice screams behind me. I look around and see my human running towards me with their arms in the air. They look very silly.
“Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!”
What? Why are they so angry?
“Oh no!” They say again. “Why did you eat the cake?”
Cake? What is cake? I guess they are talking about the tasty treat they left me. I ate it because it was there and looked delicious. It was delicious. Not what I expected but very delicious.
“It took me ages to make that stupid cake! There goes the centre piece for the Rooster Bar’s twenty year anniversary! Whoever requests a dumb cake shaped like a roast chicken anyway? Now what am I going to do?”
I have no idea what my human is talking about. So I give them a sympathetic look. It usually helps.
“Don’t look at me with those puppy dog eyes! You know you’re a very bad dog!”
This is again confusing. Yes I have puppy dog eyes. I am a puppy dog, no? Still don’t understand why I’m so very bad. I look at her and show how sad I feel about her accusations. I move my eyebrows around. She usually likes that.
Then I have a great idea! I think my human is angry because they were left out of the strange meat eating. So, I run up to the plate and try to give it to the human, to share. The plate falls onto the floor. That is good, because the last of the meat is nice and easy for the human to eat some with me. Off the floor. Mmm much better. But they don’t seem to be happy about that either. They make another wailing noise and groan, and sort of sniff. I am only trying to share the delicious strange meat with them. I wouldn’t do that for just anyone. There’s no pleasing some people.
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Bicycle Secrets
I saw my bike today.
A homeless man with steel wool for hair was wheeling it along the footpath in Boronia Square.
I loved that bike, it was the best bike ever. Red Shogun hybrid bicycle with Shimano gears – I miss you still.
I know it was my bike because of the aftermarket additions. A little mirror mounted on the handlebars, to see what’s coming behind me. And a black wire basket on the back that was slightly broken but still worked fine.
I’d recognise that broken basket anywhere. My neighbour and friend had put it in the communal bins when he left the country. He took his bike but left behind the partly broken basket. And my partly broken heart.
I was only going to keep it until I found another one like it, but didn’t ever find one. Only those wicker type things that go on the front of the bicycle, which is not the same at all.
That basket was so handy. So many trips to the shops, to a friends, yoga class or a picnic to the park. Everything could go in the basket. Cycling home from Uni, my backpack and books didn’t have to be on my back. So much more freedom! But wow, did that basket seem to piss off other cyclists. In my street clothes, a woman no less, and with a broken basket stuffed with books and veggies, I didn’t look like a real cyclist at all. They would always have to come up behind me, these men with dropped handlebars and lycra, and pass me. But by the end of the trip, they weren’t any further ahead! They just had to be ahead of me and my broken basket.
My red bicycle was a good friend to have during my single years. It was crucial in facilitating impromptu catch ups. There was the pop in because I just happen to be riding past. Or the meet up because I need a destination to ride to. And it could also help me avoid people.
For a while it was a case of where I went the bike went. It came on the plane with me when I went home to Tassie for Christmas. In many ways they were special times sharing the beautiful old lighthouse keepers house at Low Head with my extended family. But there’s only so many family competitions you can feign interest in. The bike gave me independence and a means to escape. I’d say I was riding to Georgetown to get a cup of coffee. Truth is, the coffee in Georgetown in those days was only mildly better than warm swamp water. The real reason for these sorties was my Mother’s inability to understand my grief and give me space, following the breakdown of my marriage. The repetitive, blood pumping, fresh sea air gasping exercise would reinvigorate me, enabling me to return to another round of Rock of the Day.
Then in happier times it came to Brisbane with me when I moved there with my new boyfriend. And four years later was to follow us back to Melbourne, in the removal truck. But I never saw it again. My bike, along with some of our furniture, wasn’t delivered. Missing in transit. So many calls to the delivery company and then when I’d given up on them ever finding any of it, and had bought replacement of essential items like an office chair, it turns up. It being the missing stuff, minus my red Shogun hybrid bicycle with Shimano gears, and a partly broken basket on the back.
And then I see it. Fifteen years later. It still looks good. I still want it. But the homeless man probably needs it more than I do. The basket is crammed full with stuff in striped bags from the cheap-store. I’d love to know how my bike came into his possession. But I never will. Only the bike will know. The bike knows many secrets. The bike doesn’t tell.
If this story has reminded you of how much you love cycling you can go to https://www.visitvictoria.com/see-and-do/outdoor-and-adventure/cycling/cycling-trails to discover many wonderful bike trails in Victoria.
This piece was originally published on my writing group website. Click here to see more from Mountain Ash Chapter.
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Autumn: Season of Leaves and Sunsets
And so it begins. My love hate relationship with autumn.
On one hand, sunsets are at their peak at this time of year. I can watch from the window in front of my writing desk as golden hour approaches and then the light dims, and the sky changes colour by the second, like a kaleidoscope. I jump up with my camera to capture the scene as the colours spread across clouds and clear sky and intensify on the spot where the sun finally disappears below the horizon.
I have my parents to thank for my sunset obsession. My father Ken, born into the farming life was, secretly, a frustrated architect. He designed and built the new “Big House” on the farm to contain the growing boisterous family, that were bubbling out of the seams of the tiny cottage we were living in.
The new house had some bold mid-century modern features that were always a talking point when we had visitors. Exposed beams, large open plan living areas, and a pretty funky kitchen design, to name a few. But the highlight was the huge west facing picture window above the fireplace. A cylindrical flue, (possibly made of asbestos, but lets not go there) sat outside the window in full view in a brutalist style, but faded from sight as we looked out over the farm to the Western Tiers and the skies beyond.
Whilst my father created the original design, it was my mother Lesley, who would always encourage us to take advantage of it.
“Everyone get up now and admire the sunset!” She’d call out from the kitchen, which shared the same westerly view as the living room, only separated by some cupboards that looked as if they were floating in space.
I can’t promise that my young brain, so spoilt by the natural beauty of the Tasmanian countryside around me, felt the same level of appreciation as I do today. But the fact remains, that of my childhood memories, this is one of the strongest, several decades later. I frequently echo the sentiments of my Mother, trying to rouse a household of screen watchers to get up and look at the sunset.
Autumn in the hills is undoubtedly the most visually gorgeous of seasons. The changing colours of the leaves of liquid ambers, flame trees and many varieties of Japanese maples, mimic the oranges, reds, pinks and yellows of the ever changing evening skies. Each year I’m happy to see the sudden arrival, as if by magic, of deep red Virginia Creeper, climbing through the trees.
Cool mornings, warm afternoons and mild evenings are a gardener’s delight. So the slight sadness and regret of the annual chopping back the perennials and ornamental grasses, is tempered by ideal gardening weather and dreams of what might get moved, added to or relegated for next spring.
So, what could I possibly not like about the autumn, you wonder?
It’s nothing in the physical world which is all beautiful. It’s more of a somatic nature. The disappointment that summer is ending so soon and the slight sinking feeling brought on by the inevitability of the encroaching winter. The time of darkness, cold, rain, less walks, less gardening and freezing nights and mornings. As the Beatles said “a long cold lonely winter.” (Yes, I can hear my European and American friends laughing hysterically at this description. But shoosh, it’s all relative.)
I vow to enjoy these easy days of early autumn, as I sit writing with my door to the balcony open next to me, still wearing my summer pjs, and marvelling at the beauty of nature. Now is when we get the best of both worlds. Husband man and the munchkin are already obsessed with the football. And me, I’m already obsessed with my autumn sunsets.
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Please talk about invisible illness, but leave my visible one out of it
I’m always hearing about invisible illness. Please share if you know someone who has an invisible illness, says social media. Why, do they need more sympathy? Well I’m here to tell you, when you have a visible illness, sympathy ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Let me give you a little scenario:
You go into a shop, you’ve never been there before and the total stranger from behind the counter thinks it might be nice to say…
“Oh dear! That doesn’t sound good!”
Or its cousin, “You sound bad!”
Just because you have a little asthmaticy cough. Now I’m not talking about Covid paranoia. This started well before Covid was a glint in the eye of a tasty bat.
Being told all day long that you don’t sound good, isn’t good! Keep your thoughts of my goodness or badness to yourself please!
Scenario number two:
You’re on the phone to a help desk. Instead of saying “how can I help you today?” The Helper says …
“Oh no, you sound sick!” Just because your nose is blocked from chronic hayfever and nasal polyps.
“I’m ok,” I say, thinking lets get onto business.
“You must have a really nasty cold!” they say over the top of me.
“Ha ha,” I laugh joylessly. “No, that’s just my voice. This is how I always sound.”
Frequently the call will end with a “Hope you feel better soon!”
What? Why? I’ll feel better if you can fix my internet problems.
Now you’re possibly thinking I sound very ungrateful. Well you’re right. I’m not grateful at all for being told I sound bad, sick, and wretched. It makes me wonder how it is for people with really obvious conditions or disabilities, that might be different from the norm. How much unwanted sympathy must they have to manage?
So, please feel free to talk about your invisible illness. I’m all for education and empathy. I’m not in any way saying we shouldn’t learn about these illnesses, just leave my visible one out of it please.
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That Time I Could Have Been Killed in My Home
This one time, many years ago, when I was an inner city hipster, my partner Dan and I are out having a drink and a bash at pool at our local pub. The drinks and joie de vivre flow. Our pool shots are all dropping and none of the likely lads challenging could beat us. In the end we stop on our terms and let them have the table, after all we just wanted to play each other not these plonkers.
So, full of beer and victory we wander off home down the back streets of Richmond. Getting out my keys I open the front gate and see the door is open! Just as I’m thinking, who left the door open? a scrawny youth comes out of said door with some electrical equipment under his arms, closely followed by a young woman of unnaturally yellow hair, carrying some extra bits and bobs.
Face to face with our robbers caught in the act, instinct takes over. Dan yells “Put it down!” to the scrawny one, who does what he’s told. The yellowy one runs for the high front fence attempting to jump over it. I chase her pull her down and shove her up against it screaming “You’re not going anywhere!!” Or something equally as cop show.
When they realise the jig’s up the scrawny guy starts jibbering about the door being open, as if that’s a good reason to steal some stuff. Turns out they’d broken the bedroom door at the back of the house to get in. So liars as well as thieves.
Then Dan’s got the two of them now and I go inside to call the cops. Remember, this was before the time of mobile phones and when video players were something worth stealing. I scream when I see the mess inside. They’ve emptied all the drawers and cupboards all over the house looking for something more readily exchangeable. It actually looks worse than it is, but by now I’m feeling a bit jittery!
When I come back out Dan is lighting up a cigarette. Ever the gentleman he offers one to scrawny guy, who takes it. Strange things happen when the adrenaline is pumping.
There’s no waiting on the fuzz with this hot burg. Only moments later many pairs of boots come thundering down the street and suddenly the tiny front yard is full of coppers. One takes the cigarette from the scrawny guy’s mouth and butts it out on the ground. It’s all over for you Sunshine, says the Cockney voice inside my head.
Debriefing later, we wondered if our citizens arrest was possibly slightly foolish. I mean they could have had guns, or knives at the very least. Or more cronies inside looking for a fight. Ah, the confidence of youth…. and beer.
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Those Infernal School Photos
Can you name anything else that you have to buy before you even see the product? And we all accept it as normal! Infernal school photos!
How often have you thought, no I won’t get any this year. And then feel guilty and end up buying the whole pack. Because they’re not just photographs, they’re memories, you can’t put a price on memories.
They won’t be this small forever. Look how cute they look in their school uniform!
And there you are, you’ve bought that jumbo grandparents pack only to find that in the photo, your little monkey is practically unrecognisable?
That weird smirk, forced grin or is it a grimace?
“Who’s this?” your child will ask years later.
“That’s you!”
“Noooo. No really? Wow, I was scary!”
Then there’s the ones that were taken the day after monkey fell out of a tree and has cuts and bandaids all over their face… or the bad haircut… or the bee sting.
Oh, and how could someone not notice that the arm in a sling has a perfectly working middle finger sticking up?
And this one he’s got one eye closed! Did they think that was a permanent state? Who knows? The monkey could’ve held that face for hours before the shot was taken.
“Why have we got this random class photo?”
“Because it’s my class.”
“But you’re not even in it!”
“Yes I am. Look. Back there.”
“Mmm yes, that could be the top of your head I guess. Were you ducking down?”
“I just had to scratch my leg.”
And you’re wondering what you’re going to do with all these photos that look exactly the same but are different shapes and sizes.
No-one wants the bookmark picture. It seems they all just read eBooks, or Facebook, or Snapchat, or whatever.
Don’t even try to pass off that really huge picture to Grandma again.
“Honestly I’m running out of room for these darling! I’ve got 11 grandchildren, and every year they have another photo! I’m not a museum! I suppose you can give me the wallet sized one, but who am I going to relegate?”
Or the super special ones you pay extra for – the sibling photo! You can guarantee there is always one sibling with a beautiful smile, and the other scowling about the ignominity of having to put their arm around their snotty sibling and “smile”. You know as soon as you see it, that you’ll have that whole packet sitting in the cupboard until you discover it one day in ten years time when you’re moving house. You’d rather that than have all the relo’s comparing the lovely one and that other one.
And then… they get to high school.
They’ve more than likely learnt how to take a good photo by now. Closed mouth smile, pout, surprise eyes, sad eyes, grim face, hate face. The options are many and full of photographic joy!
At least you have a 50/50 chance of getting an image of your teen smiling. You can hang many copies of this around the house to remind you that the scowl on their face isn’t permanent and may one day wash off.
I dream of a day where you can see the actual bloody photo before you have to commit to buying it. And when the Basic Pack really is just basic with a couple of pics of your kid and a class photo, and you don’t have to go without food for the week to pay for it.
Come on people! A bit of civil disobedience you reactionaryists (it’s a word)! Refuse to buy the photos! Together we can change the world (of school photos).
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Boudica, Chapter Four, “Chickens!!”
The chickens free range as nature intended. There’s a professionally built fenced area around the backyard, designed to keep a very springy Springer Spaniel in. But even with clipped flight feathers, the girls still find ways to wander further.
They explore the one acre block we live on, and then explore some more. No-one around here has fences, so the girls are living the dream!Text Msg: “One of your chickens is in Carol’s front yard.”
I head up to Carol’s and carry Boudica back home.Neighbour on my backdoor step. She had wandered down from her house behind me, past the unfenced fenceline and up to the kitchen door:
“Are those your five chickens? They’ve been digging in my vegetable patch! Can you keep them off my land?”
“I’m so sorry, they do love to wander. Seeing as you don’t have fencing, maybe you could fence your vegetable patch?”
I’ve seen the vegetable patch. It’s only about two by two metres, it’d be quite easy to fence. And frankly, if my chickens don’t dig it up, then the possums, rats, wallabies and birds certainly will.I remember when my next door neighbours had chickens, years ago. I would delight in seeing them wander past my home office. Or scratch away in the garden bed in front of my window. When did we all become so concerned about our bush gardens? To be honest no-one around here is getting ready for the Open Gardens Scheme. It seems a little unhillslike to me.
Text Msg: “Hi, I just saw your chickens heading up next doors road. I was driving to work so couldn’t stop.”
“Thanks, I’m not home either. They do love to wander. Hopefully they keep out of trouble and get home safely.”
“Update, all chickens present and accounted for.”
“Lucky chickens :)“I frequently do the rounds of the nearby houses, leaving little bags of eggs or other gifts at their door as a means of apology. I wonder if they enjoy the eggs with their bright yellow yolks and their full eggy flavour? Or does it make them choke and gag?
“Chickens!” he barks, at the same time stuffing a sausage-sizzle sausage into his gob.
“Yeah?” We were at the local sports club, not really intending to talk about chickens, but whatever.
“One of your chickens was attacked by a dog up near our place.”
“Really? They all seem OK. Are you sure they were ours?”
“Yep,” shoves in the last of the sausage, “Five of them. Don’t expect five to come back.” Our friendly neighbour turns and walks off chewing.Eyes roll as husband man and I share exasperated looks.
“Was that a threat?”
“Sounded like a threat.”
“Where’s the ‘hello, how are you’?”
“I dunno. What’s wrong with people?”
“They don’t understand that chickens are people too.”Soon after we do in fact lose one of the girls, Jules, to a dog attack. The irony is she was on our block at the time, and the dog shouldn’t have been there. Foxes get a lot of bad press but it’s actually the fourth domestic dog attack on my land. Talk about blaming the victim! Poor Jules. RIP.
So now there are only four fluffy butts facing me, as they bob their heads into the feeder outside the kitchen window. Then they turn away looking for other tasty treats. Boudica is always first to leave, usually over the pizza oven with a swift chooky walk down to the secret garden to lay her egg.
Zoe goes through the fence. Followed by Sandy. Hazel makes several attempts, yet again, to get through the gate. No still doesn’t fit through. Sigh, she’s not the brightest of the bunch. Then jump flies over the top of the fence. These three are heading off up the hill, to scratch, dust bathe, sun themselves, shelter from the rain, and eat insects and worms as nature intended.
“Happy trails chickens, and safe return,” I bid them. -
Happy Endings
My hands glide up his back, across his freckled shoulders and down his flanks to just above his boxers.
Repeat a few times, getting in sync with Angelique Kidjo’s haunting version of Malaika. I’ve played this beautiful Tanzanian song so many times I have to stop myself singing along in Swahili. This is why I usually only play instrumental music. No-one, absolutely no-one wants to hear me singing to them in any language.
“Does anyone ever ask you for a special ending?” he asks. His voice is slightly muffled from the face hole in the table. But the words are as sharp as a blade into my psyche.
“Only guys,” I say, “when they ask if anyone ever asks for a special ending.”
I don’t think he gets it. Or he thinks I don’t get it. So, he tries another tack.
“You know, like a happy ending? Rub ‘n’ Tug? Like does anyone ever ask you for that?”
“I understand what you’re saying. The answer is no, no-one would ever ask me that.” I give a little laugh to show I’m not offended and to pretend I didn’t think that’s what he was asking me to do.
It’s only ever men who ask that particular question. I don’t see it as curiosity. They’re not curious about any other aspects of my life.
I decide against massaging his glutes with oil and instead leave the towel over his buttocks and sink my elbow into his piriformis muscle. Otherwise known as that spot that makes you squirm just a bit. Guys like this think No Pain No Gain. If he can’t get his happy ending then he wants it to at least hurt.
We’ve already had the Pain Threshold discussion.
“You can go harder if you want!”
“Yeah, I’m just warming up your muscles first. I’ll go deeper once they’re more relaxed. Otherwise I find the muscle fibres just want to tighten up more to protect themselves.”
I try to keep the explanation simple, not too much biology or physiology and not too much woo woo.
“Ok, well I’ll tell you I have a pretty high pain threshold.”
“Mmm, my aim isn’t really to cause pain. But I promise I’ll get right in there soon.”
Oiling up his legs now. I roll the towel so I can stick a great wad of it between his upper thighs, so there’s no chance of my hands getting anywhere near what he wants tugging.
“So, do you like doing massages?” He asks.
Not this question again! There’s really no correct answer for this question.
I obviously can’t come back with “no I don’t like it” can I? I mean how uncomfortable would they feel then.
I but I feel uncomfortable saying “Oh yes, I love it!” It just sounds creepy. Like I’m getting enjoyment from having my hands all over his body.
I’ll usually try to sidestep the question a bit by explaining that it’s really only a small part of what I do so it’s good to have some variety.
“Oh, so what else do you do?” OK, so observation isn’t this guy’s strong suit. The decor of my clinic room, qualifications on the wall and various strange looking implements have been overlooked.
“I’m a Doctor of Chinese Medicine.” I rarely use my formal title but people like this need to learn a bit of respect. I didn’t spend five years full time at University to be a hooker. I don’t get any though.
“Err what’s that mean? You don’t look Chinese.”
Sigh.
“Acupuncture, herbal medicine, lots of other things.” I really don’t like chatting much during a treatment. It’s a distraction from what I’m doing.
“Oooh, what… like sticking needles into people?”
“Yep.”
“Do you know the Death Point?”
Sigh again.
“Did you see that in some Kung Fu movie?” I ask. Of course he did.
I suggest that he stops talking, so he gets a better result from his massage.
I can now concentrate on what the body is telling me rather than answering questions. Once I start to really focus I make some discoveries about the cause of his discomfort and set about doing a proper therapeutic massage.
When the massage is over, he looks happy, regardless of not getting everything he wanted.
“Wow, that actually feels great!” he says with a bit too much surprise, his red face beaming.
“So, what do you think? Lots of knots there?”
I confirm that his muscles were tight and suggest that magnesium can really help to relax them.
“Nah, I hate taking pills and anyway I eat lots of bananas.”
“Yeah, that’s more of a potassium thing than magnesium, but it’s up to you.”
He says he’ll call me next time he needs a massage. He won’t. He’ll find someone with no formal qualifications that can give him a slap and tickle. Or what was it he said? A rub ‘n’ tug.
The final insult was asking me if I took cash? “I don’t need an invoice.”
My turn to play dumb again.
“Yes of course.” And then charge him the full amount.
So little respect. Would he ask a Physio or Chiropractor if they could do a “cashie?”
After he leaves I spend extra time washing my hands and arms and cleaning up.
I hear a car pull up and check my schedule. Oh good, it’s one of my lovely regulars. No awkward questions. Honest feedback about how things are going. They trust me to use a variety of tools and techniques to get a therapeutic result. I spend longer explaining how or why certain things work. What they can do to help between visits. I’m back on solid ground and the session feels symbiotic.
And I remember why I love my job so much. It is indeed a happy ending to my day.
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Amanda Gambas Author 