The last day of 2017. Right now it's 11am and Ben's in the kitchen solo-playing Onirim while waiting for UFC 219 to start. YouTube is auto-playing music of varying quality in the background. Downstairs, the washing machine noisily cleanses an assortment of ragged towels, old clothes and a new Coles Christmas t-shirt. The joyfully-red shirt has been in active service for three evening shifts a week while its generally-solemn wearer re-stocks shelves and helps customers locate items. The other evening, I asked for directions and was directed to a non-existent aisle 23. Mum, who's rarely here, was here briefly and has just left. Jazz is out in the yard snoozing amongst the peach pits. Two motorcycles sit idly in the garage, parked between the old blue Ford and a less-old Holden station wagon. The even-older Skyline has been sold to an enthusiastic younger person with lots of plans. Household finances, an ever-present post-retrenchment concern, have been eased by occasional freelance work with known publishers. As a result, those red zones on the planning spreadsheets have gradually been pushed back and we're safe to stay put for the next 12 months. UFC has started and our former-traveller is resting tiredly on the couch while heavily tattooed adults beat each other up using an assortment of fighting styles on the TV. "He's in a bad situation here," according to Joe Rogan's commentary. As for us, we're doing OK.
