Many people I met remembered the last piece I had written about the city, a quarter of a century before. ‘Kev. Kev! Time you got going.’ ‘Jeez, Sandra, it’s raining out there.’ ‘TV says it’s fining up. You’re not crook are you, Kev? It’s all that booze you know, Kev, you know what the doctor said, cut down on the booze, he said, no wonder you’re crook in the mornings, the human body can take only so much …’ But Kev has slipped out by now, and with his office gear slung in his backpack is away, and up the steps, and half-way along the approach to the great bridge. If he was crook, he is crook no more, for the TV was right, the rain clears as if by magic, and all the glory of the winter morning unfolds over the water as he breaks into his jog along the sidewalk. He is joining the stream of life itself! To his right the suburban trains clatter, the commuter cars lurch in fits and starts towards the city. To his left ferries bustle across the harbour, the first hydrofoil is streaking in a foamy curve towards the sea, the very first yacht is slipping from its moorings, and a tug is on its way, riding lights still burning, to meet the towering freighter just appearing around the headland.
What do You think about A Writer's World (2010)?
