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I woke up to the sound of kookaburras and currawongs this morning. I’d forgotten such creatures even existed. No, that’s not really true, I remembered kookaburras but not the currawongs.

Another thing: I never realised how Australian Australia looked. Black bitumen roads and foot paths, shorts, singlets and bare feet, frangipanis and bougainvillea, buffalo grass lawns and squat brick houses, eucalyptus trees with vivid bark, long sandy beaches, white light and heat, bushfire haze. It doesn’t seem so ordinary now.

Is home a word that I am avoiding here?

It doesn’t seem right to be here so soon. The experience of air travel is all about suspension, immobility – and then suddenly, incongruously, you arrive. A real journey is about repetition – a series of steps, repeated actions. How can you know where you are going if you take no part in it?

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