Harbour town

It’s tricky navigating through life being a writer. There’s never enough time and there are always too many interruptions.

Here’s the quandary. Scenario: you’re in Sydney, on holiday with your family. You’ve been to Sydney before, on your own. You loved it. At the time, you breathed in the atmosphere of Circular Quay as you looked out at the Harbour Bridge and Opera House; let it fill your lungs with vibrant life, as office workers and tourists tussled for a place in the queue for a cappuccino or ferry. You sat on a seat and took it all in. You watched people walk past, drink their coffee, take photos. You listened to their conversations. You noted what they wore. And every now and again you saw how the sun glanced off the water, the bridge behind, standing there like a wise old man.

You could hardly breath. You wanted to capture this moment – so you could always relive it – not let it slip away.

You took a ferry to Manly. You sat outside on the top deck. Your hair flew behind you as you watched the Opera House glide past, then the Botanical Gardens and Government House. You looked out at the bay side houses of the rich and famous and tried to imagine yourself living there. You took photos.

You took out your notebook and tried to convert everything into words. You knew the words would capture more than the photos. And now it was even harder to breath. Your chest burst with happiness. You felt so connected to this world, these people.

But something was missing. Everywhere you went, you longed for your children to see. You wanted to grab them by the hands and run through Hyde Park and do a crazy dance by the fountain, take silly pictures. You wanted to zoom to the top of Sydney Tower and point out the monorail, watch planes take off through the giant binoculars. You wanted to walk along the same route that Alexander took in Pamela Allen’s Alexander’s Outing and marvel at the Bottle Tree and examine the iron gates. You wanted to go Bondi Beach and stand agog at the expanse of white sand and surf and a million under twenty-five-year-olds baring their beautiful bodies to the sun.

So you did.

A couple of years later, you packed the car with tent and bags, piled your friend and your children in, and headed back to Sydney. You even survived the harrowing experience of sitting next to your sixteen-year-old – proudly propped in the driver’s seat – as you hurtled up the Hume at 110km per hour, L plates vibrating on the windscreen.

And you did all that and more. And it was perfect. Nearly.

Everything you saw, everything you heard and smelled and did – you wanted to experience it in words. You wanted to first dream of what the words would be, then get out the new little red notebook with the textured front cover and write it down.

But there was no time. Your happy travelling companions who you love with all your heart were always ready to move on to the next activity – bless them.

So you tried to live in the present moment.

A challenge.

But you had a darned good time trying!