esterday the sun was shining on Carlisle Street, Balaclava. I'd just had my hair cut and coloured, and there are very few moments when I would look as styled, despite the half active wear half casual wear outfit. My hands were full of brown paper bags from an unexpected purchase from a bakery, heavy sourdough laden with fat kalamata olives, cinnamon scroll coiled and dusted. I needed to cross the road, busy with trams and cars and people shining in the winter light. I've always been clumsy, bumping into tables bruises blossoming on thighs and shins, sleeves caught on door handles, toes stubbed. My phone has been dropped too many to count, the screen telling the story with cracks like a river and its tributaries stretching across the glass. The curb angled down, but my ankle twisted, then in slow-mo the aspalt was coming up to meet me, knees then palms, bags flung out towards the tram tracks. I pulled the bags towards me, then shakily got to my feet. People...
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