Wednesday 8 June 1994

I was riding in a red balloon all day. Like wearing rubber knickers. Itchy and bulgey. I didn't know what was wrong.

Then I went for a run, slower than usual, pushing against the treacle. Later in the shower a few mighty, brassy chords from Brahms' First Symphony erupted in my head.

It brought back memories of when I was 12. Mum off with the Field Naturalists, Dad with his shotgun buddies making ammo for their next excursion.

And me home alone, the midget conductor, prancing on the pool table, conducting, playing the Brahms records I had borrowed from the State Library on my mother's card.