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Residency, Day 5

Today, I met the nicest, sweetest little old lady ever. She had a bun. With a pin. And she was an anthropologist. She spoke fluent Indonesian. It was fascinating to talk to her. Really, she just called up the centre out of the blue and said she wanted to come over to talk to me. Usually, when people do that, I start wondering what butterfly I accidentally killed and what grand scheming loop of doom I set off as a result. But she was really, really nice, and now I have an invitation to lunch (and tea!) on Thursday. She said her house was full of books. (Probably old books!)

I likes me the little old ladies and their tea.

I've been trying to poke through my writing, since I have my literary dinner tomorrow, and I need to read some three or four pieces between courses. Most of my time here has been spent spacing out and absorbing the garden. My writing of late, perhaps more than ever, could be defined as some whinging, dying insect trapped in the vapours of an incense burner as it hits a shroud of fine muslin.

Many things need to be written. Many things need to sound like they have actual substance behind them.