Every morning I ride a few minutes to my school crossing and park my bicycle under my Detectorists tree.
For a time I was transported to a place that's hard to explain. It was sublime, an experience one might call spiritual. Confirming even an atheist can be touched by the unknown.
The next thing I knew I was on the ground. A paramedic was talking to me. I didn’t know what they were saying.
When I was 10, my aunty moved from that house and we no longer had the uncle with the big red truck. There was no more chipped white paint and no more tyre swing.
Our flight back to London is delayed by a day, and we battle with a lecturer who threatens to fail us for missing a mandatory class. I don't know where the set-list we collected lives now.
A quarter of a century later, I hear this song again, rising spontaneously through the eucalypts.
My friend Gina sends an email with the subject line ‘Resident Rogues’, inviting me to see a swing/country/gypsy music band from the US in a little bar called the Merri Creek Tavern. She tells me a story as we wait to see the band.
The song reached in hard and touched me. That night I have a fan moment and purchase three of Corin's CDs during the interval.
Mary Gauthier entered my little world and reinforced the notion that songwriting is a great art form as worthy of any other. To me, she was, until then, an unknown master of songwriting.
Save for the weeds, not much grows in our front yard. The soil is rubbish, almost literally. “What’s the plan?” my neighbour says cheerily, as I'm weeding.