Was that the fastest winter ever?
Well, yes: actually, it was. I've had this conversation before, so skip to the recipe below if I'm boring you.
Time seems to disappear into oblivion faster as the years go by, because each is a smaller amount of time relative to one's entire lifetime.
Prove that, someone said to me once.
Time is just perception, I replied. It exists only for sentient beings.
Several sentient seconds went by, and then: Prove that as well, followed by, also: billions of years of Earth's existence before human life appeared says you are wrong.
A rock doesn't know how old it is, I replied, quickly.
The great thing about not being a scientist is you never have to prove anything.
Fettucine with ricotta and tomatoes.
Cook some fettucine until just done. Drain. Toss through a little olive oil.
Break up some fresh ricotta (you can buy it still warm from Elli's Deli in Sydney Road although the horde of elderly Greek ladies waiting to be served means you could be standing there for half an hour - have a coffee at Andre's while you wait) and strew it through the pasta along with some sliced tomatoes, if you can find any at this end of the season. Dust with cracked pepper and sprinkle parsley.
Drink: lightly chilled rose. Yes, it's fine to drink rose again. Just not the Portugese one in the fat bottle.
Mt Feathertop note: I first walked the spur as a teenager. Somewhat irresponsibly, I wandered away - a mere few hundred metres - from the bushwalking group's morning tea break and nearly fell down a slope. I clung on with a bootcap and fingernailed my way horizontally along the hard snow until the grade had softened sufficiently that I could climb out without hurtling to my death.
The real chill went down my spine when I returned to find the group leaving - without apparently having noticed my absence.
I suspect Tim Holding won't walk the track alone again, at least not in winter.