Leonard

The Serious Writing Course (TSWC) is over. Now that I don't have to beg for Tuesday night soup and sourdough from the cafe with no food or convene with the lovely group of similarly conflicted-when -it-comes-to-writing souls, I have to make do with my man. I shove his greatest hits into the CD socket, place the headset over the ears and turn up the volume. It will be Him who gets me to the end of this book from now on, not Tuesday nights at TSWC. Anthem, Dance Me to the End of Love, Show Me the Place...

But first, let me recall for a moment, the best concert ever:-



It was a hot Sunday afternoon. The air conditioner was temperamental and we had a long drive ahead of us. The cricket dominated the national channel and we forgot to pack the CDs. We were tired and grumpy.

We arrived in good time. There was only one road in and it was bumper to bumper along that gravel path. ‘No Stopping' signs everywhere, a cavalcade of police ready to pounce. Traffic wardens directed us to a dusty back paddock, far, far away from the stage. It was a long walk up a stony rise and down to the natural arena on the other side.

A sea of bodies sprawled on blankets. We needed to climb over some of them to find our spot. They weren't happy with us. Our bags were checked for who knows what and we headed for our seats. They were worth every precious dollar we'd forked out five months previously. Alcohol was confiscated. She could have done with a drink. I sipped water. We were five rows from the front. So close we could see a techie pick his nose.

We cursed because we forgot the picnic basket. The food and drink stands were on the ridge behind us, but people in the seats nearby complained about the cost. The sun set behind swirling grey clouds and the blowies came out to play. The repellent stink was worse than the cigarette smoke and the few outraged protests. It was a concert after all; relax and enjoy, smoking or not.

A giant sat on the seat in front of me. Did anyone have a head that huge? Would he take off the hat before kick-off? We debated requesting him remove it and decided to wait. Then it rained. We were in a drought. We worried the music would stop, but it continued. When it was over, when yet another encore failed to eventuate, it was late. The old man had sung graciously at an octave lower than I remembered, for three and a half hours, bless Him.

We dreaded the exit. Thousands trudged up to the road and many stumbled and swore. Pebbles, tree roots and fallen branches; it was lethal. There were babies whimpering amid the subdued chatter. The lighting in the paddock was nonexistent except for an occasional blinding spotlight. We clung onto each other like a pair of wobbly old ducks.

The paddocks were teeming with people who were lost, just like us. We should have noticed landmarks and now we couldn't find the car. There were many like us, who forgot it would get dark. We stood there pressing our remotes, waiting for flickers. We wandered the field still overloaded with barely moving vehicles until we finally found the car. We were filthy, tired and relieved.

It was an hour and a half before we were waved through the single exit. The slow moving traffic continued until we hit the highway and headed for home. I fell into bed at 3 am, with my feet still covered in red dust.

A nightmare? Not at all. Our Paul Kelly followed by Leonard Cohen. An unforgettable experience. One of the best nights of my life.

Now back to writing.