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And then, not long after I finished posting about my visit to the airport, I was back in the car and I heard that there has been an alleged threat to explode bombs which have been carried onto planes in hand luggage. It is serious, and people in airports are not worried about which magazines they will buy.

Of course, the post is rendered pathetic. And I am thinking I’m glad I live in Adelaide in the most feeble and self-congratulatory way, and I almost let myself think I should stop listening to the news, and it is taking all my effort to remember that we must condemn terror, not our human rights.

This morning, I dropped my father off at the airport, because he is going on a short trip. This is a job I performed with the good grace and maturity you would expect from someone my age. I do not have a photograph of myself being graceful. Such moments are hard to capture on film.

At this time of the day, there are very few Men in Suits at the Adelaide Airport, because by now they have been in their Very Important Meetings for well over two hours. There are, however, very many people using their out-in-public tone of voice to say: ‘I told you to stay away from there.’ Also because they are in public, they add such reasonable codas as: ‘it’s dangerous, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself’.

Here is my father’s plane. As he was boarding, I squinted for a bit, and it made him look like a rock star boarding his private jet after last night’s sold-out performance at the Entertainment Centre.

These are some of the places from which people will be arriving today. They will also depart for these places. However, I happen to know that you cannot go buy a ticket to Moomba without getting permission from someone or other. When you get to Moomba, you get a drink bottle and training on how to recognise the signs of thirst. This is second-hand knowledge. Live vicariously or not at all.

Here are some faux-retro bottom-holders:

Which are, I imagine, the kinds of things you can whip next door and get from here:
I can’t say for sure, because it is a place where I have never been.

The newspaper stands in airports make me feel connected to the rest of the world and today I bought two newspapers, but one of them was The Advertiser. The woman behind the counter made me hand the newspapers to her so that she could scan them, and I was a bit scared of her fingernails. They were long, and the nailpolish was more than a little chipped. They are the kind of nails which are too thick to bite. For some reason instead of taking a photo of the newspapers, I took a photo of the books and magazines.

For a long time after my father’s plane has taken off, I watch the planes coming and going, even though I know that it will cost me a fortune in car park fees.

In a few minutes, this plane will turn to the left and fly directly over my grandfather’s house. When I was young and slept on a fold up bed in the smallest room of his house, the planes woke me up in the morning because I wasn’t used to them. I think of the times I was living in places away from Adelaide, and my grandfather came to meet me. My father would have done it, but he lived two and half hours away. More by bus. I remember how flat and how purple Adelaide used to look to me then. I think of the meetings in Sydney I don’t go to anymore. I think of the trip to London I made last year, and how it was, being two flights away from my boys. I think of the trip to Portugal my heart wouldn’t let me make.

I think of saying goodbye and of saying hello.

It is just a trip to the airport, but nothing is straightforward.

By storing a replacement toner cartridge in my cupboard, and remembering that I have done so, I have foiled the universe’s attempts to foil my attempts to never miss a deadline.

Be upstanding with me in my moment of victory.

Please be seated.

As you were.

On Sunday, when the late-winter sun was at its most perfect – warm, not too low, clear of clouds – and when my children were at their most playful, and when my partner was at his most relaxed, I went into town to listen to some “Comfort Women” tell their stories.

And one of them told us that every night when the sun starts to go down, she starts to feel the fear. Because that is when the soldiers would start lining up outside her door.

Today is the International Day of Action for the Justice of “Comfort Women”. Go here to see what you can do.

All right, keep using the bookcase as a climbing frame and launch pad, but don’t come complaining to me when you break your neck.

Pour one more glass of red. Let it slosh around the sides when it pours, let there be a clunk when the bottle goes back to the bench.

Turn down the lights, lean back in your chair. Sip on your wine, sip again, close your eyes.

Augie March. Moo, you bloody choir.

Go back to the best, the best, the very best night of your life. And then further back to the one that was better than that. The one you can only bear to think about every now and then.

What a night. What a song. What a night.

None of this:

A bit of this:

And a shit-load of this:

Sometimes at the end of the day, at the end of the week when nothing’s been done and nothing’s been achieved, I look at the bench and the Rice Bubbles haven’t even been put away and I really do think what’s the bloody point.

And then at just the right time, a little boy says mum, would you like to come and see how good I’ve got at my skipping.

And I don’t say can’t you see I’m cooking the tea or I’ll just finish hanging out this load.

I say yes.

And at the end of the day at the end of the week, thank goodness, there’s always a point.

…is that on Monday nights, Boston Legal doesn’t finish until 11.30 pm, and then there’s Scrubs.

My mother did not teach me that ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything’. She taught me to just let fly.

But I haven’t got anything to say about the report I have heard on the radio regarding the Prime Minister’s decision to stay on to contest the next election.

Excuse me. I am off to sit in a dark room with my hands over my ears and my eyelids down.