Here I am, in Albany, my home, for another couple of days. But not for long. The city, Perth, beckons.
It doesn't beckon with a seductive "come on, call me, don't be shy, call, now".
Nuh, it beckons with a necessary "hey, I've got the money and you ain't making any down there, so come on up, get it, then go home and chill".
So I do.
I drive up, fly up, get up whatever way I can, do the gig, grab the money, rush home, chill a bit, hit the beach, run hard and surf like an aging man who wants to be 16 again.
Not an emotional, spiritual or intellectual 16, or even a physical 16, but be able to do what I could have done with a 16 year old body, but with the little knowledge I have gleaned between then and now.
Is that too much to ask?
Over the last two months I have pounded the streets of Sydney, Canberra and Melbourne to push "Boy on a Wire", been all the way to Kununarra for the Kimberley Writers' Festival, Geraldton for the Big Sky Writer's Festival and back home for Albany's own Sprung Writers' Festival.
No surprise I'm buggered.
And the book will be reprinted over the next week or so.
And this week I will fly to Perth again.
And the week after that.
The week after that? Probably.
I'm fly in fly out.
I'm running short on carbon credits.