During my recent bus travel I sought out the comfort of every public bench I encountered before eventually taking refuge in Moruya's Adelaide Hotel where I handed over a five-dollar banknote for a glass of beer, only to be told, "That'll be another dollar, sir!"
Thus convinced that I'd be physically and financially better off staying home, I've curled up with "The Drunkard's Walk", the sort of book you can't read in the course of just a few toilet sittings (unless you had vindaloo for dinner). While it's little more than 200 pages, there are another thirty-odd pages of notes and indices, and, believe you me, you need them to skip back and forth to understand it all.
Indeed, I got waylaid with Pascal's Wager which prompted me to also take another look at Pascal's Pensées, all of which means that I won't come up for air for a couple of days at least. Of course, all this reading would've been so much more fun if little Rover was still around. Not that he was much of a reader himself but his little bum pushed up against my side always wonderfully helped to ground me in the present.
