A week ago today, ironing at the table and drinking moscato, which was recommended by a woman at the supermarket when Vincent discovered they didn't have any rose, which I have been drinking all summer in spite of the fact I don't actually really like the taste that much - in fact, because I don't like the taste that much, if that makes any sense. Moscato, which was new to both of us, tastes like what we might have thought wine would taste like before we ever actually tasted it; light, and sweet, and festive (although at 7% alcohol, it takes a bit of drinking before you begin to act in a particularly festive manner). Note the fly graveyard on the windowsill; my own handiwork. While Vincent takes after my father and is liberal with the flyspray, I like to think I take after the women in my family who came before me, and swat to my heart's content, although instead of a salu I use a rolled up bunnings flyer.
When I sit here, I feel like I am making new traditions, and habits, and I feel happy.
One month in Dogtown. It's going to be alright.