read books. So said the sweatshirt worn by a woman I saw this morning on Bourke Street. And I knew exactly what she meant. I’ve been travelling a little lately and, despite the weariness and the longing for home, managed, extraordinarily, to read almost two books in what seemed like one strange, elongated sitting. The first was Daniel Handler’s wild and unexpected We Are Pirates. And the other was Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behaviour, found in a bookshop for $10. Whenever I read her, I think, well that is a ludicrously high and probably unreachable writing bar. But mostly I sat in the sun (various seats, always light streaming in, sometimes over clouds) and read. And was particularly happy while drinking coffee under high arches and listening to Paris by Black Atlass. Small blessings.