Where there’s smoke there’s fire, so they say. What bollocks.
It might have been true once, but these days, smoke machines are two-a-penny. Flick the switch and you can roll out ‘baby joy’, ‘heartbreak’, cheating or mortal illness, and turn a casual look into a raging love affair or a dire feud as the mood takes you. And the targets of your moment of boredom (or you empty column inches) will be stuck in your fog fluid for months while the world watches for signs of combustion. What bastards we can be without even trying.
I have been in Sydney, where I had my eyes lasered, saw those members of my family available for seeing, got more medication for my DVT, cursed the traffic a lot and came home again. Quite boring, you might say. Not a wisp of smoke or a lick of flame anywhere – although there is evidence of back-burning along the freeway which will hopefully keep the road open during the bushfire season, when you assume smoke does mean fire and take action accordingly, the sooner the better.
As for boring – well no, not to me. I freely admit that my life doesn’t make for riveting reading. I’m not out there waving flags and changing the world. But the sea is blue,
the jacarandas are in bloom
and contentment is a wonderful thing.