A poem from my first book, Something That Comes Close. Illustration by Spike.

"It could not be dangerous to be living in a town like this, of simple people," Marianne Moore, 1921

An "Author's Proof" arrives in the mail.

For Betty. 16 January 1931 to 4 February 2025

It can be odd the ways in which one's mind plays tricks on us. My mind certainly. Today is the 25th anniversary of my arrival in Australia.

I've made no plans which is simultaneously liberating and -- possibly -- the daftest-plan-ever in a long life of Dougie's daft plans.

They grant us power to see the fairies ... allegedly.

I see how it geta its name.

I resist the impulse to offer advice. I know my limits.

Birthday lunch for Spike Deane from 7° in the car park to a table next to the open fire at Grazing, Gundaroo. As if going back in time.

Brunch with Spike Deane in country New South Wales. Off the beaten track. Happy man.

Thistle the Cat takes charge.

In the immortal words of John Lennon ... love is all we need.

All we need is a lawn.

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley,

Chance of a shower ... said the weather forecast.

Solanum nigrum, Solanum americanum ... to be all Latin and botanical about it.

Canberra cancels the Midnight fireworks. We have our own. At home.

The final meal of 2024. At home with Spike Deane.

Spike Deane has a new coffee machine. And a surprisingly stylish $3 mug from K-Mart. Living the dream or what?