Looking at the time on this computer clock tells me I must pack my bag shortly; spending Easter Saturday and Easter Sunday with my mother-in-law. Having a little trouble concentrating because the technology-obsessed freaks I pushed through my loins are player their iPads loudly. My shit has already been lost once today, and is danger of going astray a second time.
This week has been good-ish. Have achieved some writing on my work-in-progress, and hope to get some more done next week. I've got an awkward scene to work on, but will just keep chipping away at it, like a little man with an ice pick at a glacier, and hopefully will eventually have something achieved.
The only thing of note these past few days is when I was scrolling through a FB page about my home town, I was delighted to find a photograph of my father taken in 1968 when he had just won the Tom Quilty 100 Mile Endurance Ride. He's unsaddling the horse, which was named Jackass. I actually remembered that horse, and used the name Jackass for a petty crim in my first ever novel. I'm sure just beside Dad is the rear bumper of our old family station wagon, a ubiquitous family vehicle for the late 60s/early 70s. If the photograph was in colour, I could be more certain. Ours was red. I have a memory of riding in the back of that vehicle, not the rear seat but the back area. I shared space with my oldest (now deceased) brother, our red cattle dog Tilly, and a sheep dad had acquired somehow; we must have been at a stock sale. The sheep had stupid-but-mean yellow eyes, it's thick wool was choked with dags and burrs, and it stank of dirt and lanolin. It also crapped on Tilly. My brother looked at me and cried, 'The sheep pooped on Too-wee!' He said 'Too-wee' because I couldn't say 'Tilly', and that's what I'd call the dog.
Aaaah, memories.
Happy Easter, all in the blogosphere. I shall resume my blogging in a few days.
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