Wind-swept bay:

Today I turned in an essay I've been bothering around with for a fortnight. Once it was done, I felt that sense of finally-at-last-and-I-should-probably-catch-up-on-other-things. But the day is grey and the air is stuffy -- and I felt fractious, like all I really wanted to do was curl up on the couch and sleep but there was no legitimate reason to. I kicked about grumpily for an hour, having found an excuse to call my mother and both my sisters -- and finally I decided I had to get out of the house.

Ostensibly, I went out to fill up the car, but I grabbed my literature readings for the week as I went, and after getting the fuel, I bought a drink and drove out the Point. I parked the car facing the bay, where the water was swirling angrily under a grey sky. It was storm water, that strange mix of brown and grey, with scrappy white where the furious ripples would leap at the mangroves and then recede, never quite getting where they wanted to go.

I wound down the windows and folded myself into the passenger seat, paper in one hand, drink in the other. The brisk collision of that damp-earth rain smell and the thick salt of ocean air made me feel more awake than I'd felt all day. I sat there with faded folk music coming low out of the car radio and rain hitting the windscreen while I watched jet skiers wrestle their machines to shore and read some of Five Children and It (yes, I get Edith Nesbit for uni homework; I know!) -- in between staring out at the water. It hit me suddenly that this was a movie moment. I don't know how else to describe them, those snippets in time where you get to slice through the fabric between your life and someone else's, and look down on things as if you were not part of it all, to -- just for the moment -- see your life for the story it really is.

For me, those moments usually only happen when something is different, when there's a little rift between the humdrum ritual of every day. It somehow provides a breathing space to actually notice. I'm always thankful whenever it does occur. It's good to be reminded that this is all a script in the hands of an amazing writer.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Asea -- I haven't yet had a chance to dip into the delicious archive of Russian children's literature, but I'll be sure to post an update when I do.

Katie -- absolutely yes! Me and that handbag are practically married.

Staish -- and I love you! Haven't started Route 66AD yet; you wanna read it first cos I might be a while?

Samantha -- secondhand bookstores have so much promise!

Mothercarey -- I had not noticed the sheer number of mouth-centric products! I guess mouths are important to me?

Can you hear screaming?

I was only a couple of kilometres from home, sitting at a red light, when an ambulance came screaming up behind the traffic. Like a slowly-unfolding fan, the cars all slid to the side of the road and the ambulance roared through. I might have forgotten about it by the time I reached the servo if I hadn't seen the swirling lights of at least six -- possibly more -- emergency vehicles clustered around the nearby shopping mall carpark. The sun was on its way down and the flashing red and blue was like an eerie disco light show. I had terrifying thoughts of crazed gunmen.

As I filled up the car, the older lady on the bowser at my right asked me, Can you hear screaming? I paused. There was definitely some screaming -- but it didn't seem to be coming from the mall. Maybe it's from the playground? I offered -- hopefully. The woman turned and stared.

To my left, a guy in business clothes wrestled with the petrol pump, the pink personalised licence plate on his car a seemingly out-of-place detail. Do you know what's going on? he asked. I shrugged. Scary.

Inside the service station, as I paid for the fuel, a guy in butcher's garb leaned forward, nudging himself into the conversation. Do you know what happened? I asked. He nodded and pulled a face. Apparently some guy had a heart attack and drove his car into Suncorp.

It sounded too unreal to be true.

I went to get back into my car. The businessman was still wrestling with the fuel pump. The old lady hovered near. I heard what happened, I said. Apparently an old man had a heart attack and drove into the bank. The guy's eyes widened. Thanks for letting me know, he said soberly.

Then the three of us got into our cars and drove off to our respective lives, back to being strangers with no connection other than that we were in the same place at the same time, wondering. And I thought about how tragedy -- even a seemingly tiny, personal tragedy -- bonds random people in random ways.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Caitlin -- and much love back to you. Your party is tomorrow! Hurrah!

Rebecca Simon -- thank you, Derek. ;)

Asea -- people-watching is the best!

Rachael -- don't you just love little people?

Nan -- how lovely to receive your comments!

Meaghan -- I wish you had been there with me. Granted, though, I probably wouldn't have noticed because I'd have been too busy talking to you. :)

I had a friend who called it the mashed-potato hour.

She was surprised when I questioned her on its meaning. Doesn't everyone call it that? she asked. No, I told her. Turns out it was a family phrase that she'd thought to be universal. "It's that hour before dinner when the kids are tired and need a bath. Mum's cooking dinner and is frazzled because the kids are pulling at her skirt, and Dad's grumpy at the end of a long day. Once you're finally done with it, you feel like a mashed potato."

I was at the supermarket today, at mashed potato hour. It's a small store with only a few aisles, and as I entered, I heard the unmistakable thunk of kid hitting floor. It was followed by the wail of a small child more incensed with wrath against the ground than hurt for actually falling onto it. I passed the kid, a girl, and as I went by, she roared, "WHEEEEERE'S MY BAG?" Just beyond her toddled an even smaller person, a maybe-two-year-old boy, who -- in bizarre discord with the epic rats' tail hanging down the back of his neck -- was looping a tiny pink handbag over his arm. "Don't worry," said the mother, bending over the girl, "your brother picked it up for you."

At the checkout, another child was screaming, this time from a reclining position in a stroller. The girl's mother was talking far too loudly to her other daughter, who hung in the trolley seat, kicking her legs. "Claire's tired and she's hungry, so please stop talking to me and just let me get this packed quickly so we can get home." "I'm hungry, too," the girl said -- not complainingly, just matter-of-factly. Then she bent over the trolley pushbar and began making faces and chattering to the screaming child in the stroller. The crying stopped and the kid began to giggle. The more Claire's sister waved her fingers, the happier Claire became. The mother straightened, from loading the shopping. "Look what you did, darling! Thank you."

Apparently even preschoolers can make hashed browns out of mashed potato. It made me happy.