Winding things

Today is the last weekday of my holidays. Its lunch time and I am sitting in The Peach in my pyjamas. I slept til midday and since then have wandered about feeling sick and making toast from my diminishing loaf of spelt. I am feeding my addictions and curling my toes against the pain in my abdomen. It is a small pain, centrally located and tolerable. I suspect that Indian two nights in a row followed by Mexican might be the culprit. My stomach prefers simple.

Today is delightfully blank and I feel whole as a pie. Knowing that on Monday I will be busy and paid for my purpose I can allow, for now, some floating. I had intended to do my tax return, visit the optometrist and catch the ferry around this blue harbour city this week but the thunder storms and the lure of The Peach held me captive.

Yesterday I caught the bus into the city. I navigated my way through the ironed and powdered people into Kinokuniya for the first time and I believe that I experienced a religious moment. My usual bookshop experience is small and measured. I will walk into Better Read Then Dead or another small independent shop like Gleebooks and search for what I want, be unable to find it and then wait for weeks while the book is ordered in. Kinokuniya nearly brought me to my knees. I fairly hovered around the shop from literary, to poetry, to Australian literary, picture books, graphic novels, English magazines, literary criticism, indie comics, stationery, literary travel and more. I walked with clasped hands and a tight face pulsing with alternate shock and awe.

This afternoon I will move to the Peach Deck, not to be confused with the poop deck. I will wear red lipstick, a fifties style party dress, my most expensive perfume, pearl earrings and my Annie Hall hat. I will make up a tray with cigarettes in a silver case, a teapot and cucumber sandwiches. I will read Hunter S Thompson as though it was my own diary.

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