You gotta love Facebook and how it spits out random memories which then jog your memories.
I'd forgot about today's anniversary until it came up as a post just a few minutes ago. It's not a big anniversary, but considering the last few days, it seems fitting to be reminded of this date.
23 years ago today I returned to Australia after eight years in England.
I had to come back. This is not to say that I wanted to come back - I didn't really - but circumstances of my own making meant it was Australia.
To top and tail this I saw the friends I moved in with when I first came back on Tuesday - Bernie and Gaz. It's given the week a good symmetry.
But it's also brought back all the memories of feeling like an abject failure - which I know is unjustified in many respects, but it sometimes feels a bit like that. For lots of reasons. Too many to go into.
This was compounded by discovering the existence of a film, The Quiet Girl. The film is based on a novella we read for school in 2020 - Foster, by Claire Keegan - a quietly devestating work that is exquisitely written. This film is in Gaelic. I'm keen to see it.
In my delight about seeing the existence of this film, I penned a quick note to my old tutor, letting her know that this will be coming out soon.
I'm dreading that she will come back to me. "How's the novel going?" she will ask. I can see it now.
And I get that sinking feeling that I've let myself down once again.
Maybe she'll ignore the mail and not respond - and I'm not expecting a respose. Maybe she knows better than to ask a fledgling writer how their writing is doing.
Maybe this is the kick up the arse I require.
But still...
I look at the last 23 years, and there is that daft voice which tells me I'm useless.
I have to work on that.
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