I spent a lovely weekend in the Southern Highlands; a place where someone has dipped their hand in a pot of Britain and smeared it thickly over the landscape.
Perhaps it is the rolling green hills, ripped free of Eucalypt, dotted with black Angus cattle awaiting their journey to McDonald's. Perhaps it is the chill in the air and the winds whipping non-native Autumnal leaves into your face as you stroll along in your polo neck and jodhpurs.
In any case, I bloody loved it. Very inspiring for writing, eating cheese and drinking wine.
At a second hand bookstore I found a great read in a book entitled 'Son of-It was a Dark and Stormy Night.' Basically an American University English Dept runs an annual competition where writers come up with a very cliche`d/bad beginning to a fictitious story. What is the point? Well, they are funny, the winners get their name in a book and the reader gets reminded of the sort of things not to put in your own work. If you ever see a copy of this book or it's prequel, have a squiz for a laugh. May I share one:
Wilkins, the tall muscular fisherman, shielded himself with his pantyhose by tugging it up and over his head and holding it there while the arrows shot by the Eskimo sailors bounced mercifully off him and didn't hurt him either because apparently they could not pierce the fine knit fabric, especially the "control top".
A thing of beauty is it not?
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