the foolest month

Nearly April. Every little patch of grass is spangled with daisies and dandelions. The end of my contract is flying to meet me, looking a lot like a cheeky cherub with a drunken giggle and a shit-eating grin.

It’s been an insulated sort of an existence, this year. No TV, no movies, not much getting away—most of the time it's been me, and my apartment, and a dozen paperbacks. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect. Chiefly, I seem to have been getting very cosy with my own shortcomings. I think I've been reading too many excoriating nineteenth-century novels. Satire was cosier when I was sixteen and, by my own assessment, blameless. Well, anyway, I hope I am a smidge the better for all this hard thinking, but I wonder if there is such a thing as too much self-examination. Thank goodness for those dreamy weekends at Cinque Terre and Brescia and Bologna and Venice, and thanks again to the excellent people who shared them with me.

And the work’s been interesting. The kids are amazing—their faces are full of swift thought and they open windows into new ideas every time you look them in the eye. The work with adults has been good for getting to know some locals. The worst thing about this job is the emotional head-messing. It would be one thing if I could say I was above it, but, wow, am I not above it. In all, I’m about ready to leave.

I’m looking around for summer work and the big what-next, and I feel pretty optimistic. I can feel the good luck spreading out like warm electricity along all filaments that bind us, me and all the people that I love. Lily and Matt have got great new jobs, Luke’s got a boyfriend, Jenn’s settled in Melbourne. If you’re reading this and you need a lucky break, look lively: it’s on its way.