As a writer, there is a niggling feeling that all your experiences are fodder for your pages. Everything you see and do, the people you meet, the places you visit and even the rigmarole of ordinary existence are seen through the barrel of a pen. Not all experiences are worth writing about. Others are sublime: they cannot be distilled into words. They cannot be captured by groupings of letters, or even adequately delivered by what could be described as master storytelling, written or verbal. They are, literally, “you had to be there” moments.
And they always seem to end too quickly, yet long before their end we are already fathoming and grasping at the next ones. The embers have not cooled and we wrap ourselves in blankets, unable to savour the current warmth. That could explain why in a few places I have been, the waitress always brings two bottles of beer even when you order one. The assumption here is you will order for another one anyway, so she may as well save herself the trip. For me, an accurate assessment, but seeing as I love my beer cold, she invariably ends up making more trips than necessary. I digress.