October shines, as I look up from reading, on my
tidied desk. A bright tin of biros and scissors. A jar of multi-coloured map
pins. A metal water-bottle, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing at a conference. A
neat stack of Moleskine drawing books. My grandfather’s glass paperweight: sepia
photograph of Phillip Island pier. A miniature chest-of-drawers full of
spectacles, stones from Istanbul and Leningrad. Sun, just out from raincloud,
shines on an orderly mountain of Chinese poetry. A silver toast rack converted
to a letter-holder for bills and post office notices. The embroidered purse
containing my Nokia. I return to Orhan Pamuk.
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