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I’ve moved west.

After years being neither here nor there (although definitely in suburbia) I packed my things into storage and waited for the perfect place. I bought the one my building inspector told me was ‘a dog that I should avoid at all costs’. It is perfect.

My car is dormant in my drive, replaced by two feet and a bike that wears a furrow through Linear Park. Days are marked by the pattern of planes. The little ones that propel in earnest, the cargo ones and the ones bringing people home. My supermarket shop is now supplemented by Greek sweets soaked in honey, Pane de Casa, lemongrass and galangal. And in the streets the dogs and I have been exploring. We’ve discovered a penchant for unexpected statues, pink geraniums and a history written in sandstone.

I really like it here.

 

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