Coming Home, with a Lamington

Would you like a lamington? – everyone in Economy on the plane was asked this question, one by one. A lamington is, I believe, an Australian invention, birthed in outback towns, created from an overload of aging sponge cake (imagine a sponge!), ingeniously cut into cubes, rolled in a liquid chocolate and then rolled, tumbled! lasciviously in desiccated coconut, and named a Lamington.

More likely the name of some 3rd level aristocrat, Lord Earnest St John Lamington of Balfour Castle – but who knows where the name came from, and don’t write in to tell me.
I’ve eaten mine, sluiced down with tea, and I have at long last learned how to open those little pods of milk they give you on the plane. Write in if you want to know how.
More Henry Miller on the plane. Henry emboldens one to write. I embrace the fact that anything trivial can become significant when gifted with one’s loving attention. A man’s sunglasses snuck on his cap, for example, or a lamington. Oscar Wilde, ’tis said, put in a comma, and took it out again; I did the same just now.
The purpose of the plane trip up, where I mentioned the girl’s ropey hair, was to go on board a 40-foot yacht in order to make a coastal voyage of about 600 nautical miles, and which was ended, for me at least, after two days at sea. My aircraft is now about to land in my home city of Hobart. Poor decisions were being made, and it became clear I must disembark. If you are familiar with TV’s Black Books you have an idea of the shenanigans on board.
Home is the sailor home from the sea, and the writer, too.

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