her full name.
The problem was that she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to write about. She ran through all the ideas that she could remember ever having had, even including the vengeful one with the embeddedembryo, but nothing seemed right. None of them demanded to be written, none of them filled her with any sense of passion. And the situation was made even worse by the fact she hadnât slept well at all. It was strange sleeping alone, and not altogether pleasant. And the bad dreams had come regardless.
At just past eleven, Kate went downstairs and fetched a couple of biscuits from the cupboard. She wandered into the lounge room while she ate them, absentmindedly fluffing up some pillows and straightening the magazines on the coffee table. She thought about vacuuming but the carpet didnât really need it and, besides, she recognised that as classic procrastination. The doorbell rang just as she was rather reluctantly walking upstairs again. A delivery man stood on the porch, holding a small, very colourful flower arrangement. He smiled at her.
âKate Painter?â
âYes, thatâs right.â Kate stared at him with surprise as she took the flowers.
âSomeone likes you,â said the man, still smiling. He held out an electronic pad with a style-pen and Kate signed awkwardly.
âThank you.â
âHave a lovely day!â
Kate closed the door and then carried the flowers through to the kitchen, where she put them on the island bench. She slipped out the attached card and read it quickly.
To Mum. Good luck with the writing! Lots of love from Shelley, Emma, Caleb and Jacob
.
Kate stared at the flowers with amazement. It was a modest arrangement, a few orange gerberas and purple irises set amongst some vivid green fronds. But the size was immaterial, because it was the thought that was bringing tears to prick behind her eyes. So absolutely unexpected. Although it would have been even better if Samâs name had been there also.
After one last smile towards the flowers, Kate went into the lounge room to the telephone. First she tried ringing home, and then she tried each of the mobiles, but was unable to reach anyone. Instead she left messages of effusive thanks and then went back into the kitchen to gaze at the flowers once more.
The only problem with such a gesture, she eventually decided, was that they were like Angieâs use of the word âmasterpieceâ. Carrying with them expectations that were cumbersome in themselves. However, this last thought broke her reverie and sent Kate back upstairs, determined to accomplish more than simply the word
Title
. She sat down at her desk, stared at the computer for a while and then picked up the copy of
So you want to write? Then enough with the excuses â just do it!
She flicked through the pages slowly until she got to where the author advised yoga as a method of channelling ideas. Kate threw the book onto the bed and watched as it fell open at the page containing the authorâs picture with his smug, yoga-induced smile. She turned her back, staring at the computer screen again and praying, without much hope, for inspiration.
Kate took a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. It seemed ironic that the problem had been the rapidity of time, yet now time seemed to be almost standing still. She gazed out of the window. Perhaps she should just give up for now, go for a drive or do
something
. A small blue hatchback drove slowly down the shared driveway and parked outside the neighbouring unit. The driverâs side disgorged an elderly lady, her thin figure clad in a coat despite the warmth of the weather. Kate leant closer, trying to ascertain if this was actually their neighbour or a visitor, but the angle of the porch roof cut her vision and the lady disappeared from sight.
As she straightened again, Kate noticed another two elderly women walking down the driveway. They were dressed more comfortably, and one
The problem was that she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to write about. She ran through all the ideas that she could remember ever having had, even including the vengeful one with the embeddedembryo, but nothing seemed right. None of them demanded to be written, none of them filled her with any sense of passion. And the situation was made even worse by the fact she hadnât slept well at all. It was strange sleeping alone, and not altogether pleasant. And the bad dreams had come regardless.
At just past eleven, Kate went downstairs and fetched a couple of biscuits from the cupboard. She wandered into the lounge room while she ate them, absentmindedly fluffing up some pillows and straightening the magazines on the coffee table. She thought about vacuuming but the carpet didnât really need it and, besides, she recognised that as classic procrastination. The doorbell rang just as she was rather reluctantly walking upstairs again. A delivery man stood on the porch, holding a small, very colourful flower arrangement. He smiled at her.
âKate Painter?â
âYes, thatâs right.â Kate stared at him with surprise as she took the flowers.
âSomeone likes you,â said the man, still smiling. He held out an electronic pad with a style-pen and Kate signed awkwardly.
âThank you.â
âHave a lovely day!â
Kate closed the door and then carried the flowers through to the kitchen, where she put them on the island bench. She slipped out the attached card and read it quickly.
To Mum. Good luck with the writing! Lots of love from Shelley, Emma, Caleb and Jacob
.
Kate stared at the flowers with amazement. It was a modest arrangement, a few orange gerberas and purple irises set amongst some vivid green fronds. But the size was immaterial, because it was the thought that was bringing tears to prick behind her eyes. So absolutely unexpected. Although it would have been even better if Samâs name had been there also.
After one last smile towards the flowers, Kate went into the lounge room to the telephone. First she tried ringing home, and then she tried each of the mobiles, but was unable to reach anyone. Instead she left messages of effusive thanks and then went back into the kitchen to gaze at the flowers once more.
The only problem with such a gesture, she eventually decided, was that they were like Angieâs use of the word âmasterpieceâ. Carrying with them expectations that were cumbersome in themselves. However, this last thought broke her reverie and sent Kate back upstairs, determined to accomplish more than simply the word
Title
. She sat down at her desk, stared at the computer for a while and then picked up the copy of
So you want to write? Then enough with the excuses â just do it!
She flicked through the pages slowly until she got to where the author advised yoga as a method of channelling ideas. Kate threw the book onto the bed and watched as it fell open at the page containing the authorâs picture with his smug, yoga-induced smile. She turned her back, staring at the computer screen again and praying, without much hope, for inspiration.
Kate took a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. It seemed ironic that the problem had been the rapidity of time, yet now time seemed to be almost standing still. She gazed out of the window. Perhaps she should just give up for now, go for a drive or do
something
. A small blue hatchback drove slowly down the shared driveway and parked outside the neighbouring unit. The driverâs side disgorged an elderly lady, her thin figure clad in a coat despite the warmth of the weather. Kate leant closer, trying to ascertain if this was actually their neighbour or a visitor, but the angle of the porch roof cut her vision and the lady disappeared from sight.
As she straightened again, Kate noticed another two elderly women walking down the driveway. They were dressed more comfortably, and one
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