It is writing. A piece of work. Yes yes yes. Oooh so much work you do have, well done writer!
It's always like this. When you're wearing your owl nightie and have headphones on that you realise you don't actually have writers block. Nor do you have the ability to bold or italicize on the app I wrote this on. Or spell. Or have non-American spelling.
Currently it's rather past 3am and I'm not going to sleep, I have decided. I'm perfectly content wallowing in early morning solitude, knee cramps, hipster indie music off YouTube and very, very, very strained eyes.
Side note: that would be the reason for any of the following possible spelling mistakes. Because drafts for bloggy things don't need to edited ay?
Well, you can decide.
I decided exactly 25 or 10 days ago that I wanted to be a lemon tree farmer.
I went to lunch with a chum of mine a few weeks in a row to the same Expresso lunch bar cafe. As we went to the same place a few weeks in a row and basically moulded the two experiences into the same one, I can't remember if I made this life altering decision the most recent or...the least recent visit...
We were playing that M.A.S.H. game. Where you predict your future husband and job and kids and pets and, most import salty (importantly... Well done auto-correct) vehicle of transport.
My results show as following;
I shall marry the now just passed Doctor Who actor, (who swapped on Boxing Day, come to think of it...)
Which is pleasing, very much so! We both have brilliant jaw lines so, of course, think of the kids. Speaking of...
We shall have 16 kids.
Well....I haven't yet consulted my hips on this lovely little, teeny, tiny, incy, wincy, personal health danger but I'm sure it'll be fine in the end. I mean after all...how are babies made....
'Ts gotta count for something right? *Wink*
Anyway. We'll live in a shack. I try to make this more positive by saying, Of course a beach shack....by the ocean...with white washed walls and blue faded fishing nets hanging from them, and crumbly white shells and sand as light as whatever is lighten than the normal approximate weight of sand and it's going to be amazing.
Getting back to it;
I'll drive one of those old people bike thingys, according to the notes I have. And also I shall be a writer. Which is great, excellent of course, and exactly what I want, but there is this little hiccup...
No one takes this game less seriously than I do. But as I was waiting for my lovely friend to think of the suggestion of British men and a bonus female singer that she apparently felt fitting for me to be wed, I saw the most beautiful thing.
Outside this Expresso Cafe we were sat at, was a tree. It's always been there and there abut 100 of them along the strip that is my village, but this one was oh-so-cliche different.
Special, if you will.
It was a gray, washy day. It couldn't decide whether to rain or not so the world was blowing around a little sodden and confused for a few hours.
This tree I was mentioning earlier...It really is just a tree. One of those compulsory things they plant to make developments still appealing and eco-friendly. With the thin bone coloured trunk and shiny green leaves.
But hidden in the gale was a yellow leaf, very yellow I may add, and it blew into my eye view and I jumped inside because I thought,
"Oh my god! It's a lemon! Lemon tree!"
I don't know quiet yet why this is such an exciting thing to me.
Perhaps the idea of a new project?
Brining life into the world?
The fact that I can eat it after I complete it?
That no tree of any botanical or agricultural significance should be planted in the village strip?
And also because I'm silly and easily excited by these types of sometimes banal, sometimes irrelevant things.
Actual tree.....and not a trace of lemons....
It's not a lemon tree. I don't have a lemon tree. I probably only have a lemon a year, all together.
But this got me thinking.
Whatever I do in life, wherever I go, I would like to plant some lemon trees in my backyard.
To grow. Two for the markets, or to sell by the side of the river, like those strawberry fellas we have by the river, and one tree of my own. I will make lemonade and lemon curd and ginger beer, because in my world of logic, ginger beer is just made as fresh lemonade is, but you add sugar cane and ginger.
It's important. It's pointless and meaningless, but important. To me. It's one of those things I feel I have to do. An itching objective that needs to be ticked off the list.
I'll make a promise to you, alright.
In ten years, I assume I'll probably have grown, or changed or something "adultish" like that, and when I have I will take a photograph of my lemon trees. My lemon curd. My lemonade. And my lemon-ginger-beer brew and if you know how to find me (internet find, not post-code find) then I'll show you.
If you don't, then bad luck.
©
Dymocks Cafe in Sydney
