As it is closer than many choose to believe – to experience the indifference of middleclass others to temporary homelessness - I have more reason than most to appreciate that I live in a vibrantly pretty home.
I can choose to catch a featherlight breeze; be warmed by the winter sun; and rise at 3am to write in my winter room where I side eye the phantom snakes slithering on the polished floor.
I had the choice of a blue room and a green room but in an instant decreed the hot pink front room to be my writing room, with it’s French doors onto the verandah.
A slickly sliding sash window looks out onto a country lane running to a cricket pitch within an oval that sits at the base of a rounded hilltop.
I’m undisturbed by the bikers’ clubhouse of mostly nocturnal travelers next door, or by the kareoke I sometimes hear warble from the old two storey hotel on the corner.
Because mostly I hear the kookaburras and crows, and the currawongs competing to be heard amongst the birdsong that cracks across the river when the eastern Whipbird punctuates the cacophony.