Church on Sundays.

It's 10:25 on Sunday morning as our neighbour parks their new silver Mazda 3 exactly opposite our driveway, then moves their new white Mazda 2 from its parking spot behind their regular visitor's Mazda 626, up the drive past their other new car, a blue Mazda 3, and into the carport. Shortly after, I reverse our rapidly fading Ford off the nature strip, taking care to avoid the car now parked opposite and another neighbour's dark blue Mazda 6 sedan positioned right next to our drive. We arrive at the church late as usual and enter quietly just as the congregation stands for the Gospel.

We go to church every Sunday now, after a break of several years. It used to take some cajoling to get the kids to church and eventually I just gave up because it didn't feel very edifying making a 'sign of peace' with someone who'd been really annoying. We've all grown a little since then and, somewhat unexpectedly, I find that I'm the one being reminded to leave the house on time. I'm not sure if the parish priest noted our long absence but he's still there and we've said hello a couple of times since our return. They never stopped sending the planned-giving envelopes, even after I wrote to say we'd moved to Mulgrave all those years ago (before we moved back to where we started, we've done that twice now). The planned $5 per week was a pathetic amount now that I think about it, but we're now in arrears by a thousand or two.

We're supposed to be at the farm this weekend but didn't get there. A nephew/cousin had his 21st and we didn't get there either. Sometimes we just seem to be stuck, he and me.