So I finally broke my Sydney Writers’ Festival hoodoo.  I didn’t fall off the wharf.  I didn’t  have to push my way through the crowd to vomit in a  toilet that wouldn’t flush.  (Unpleasant for everyone, believe me). I wasn’t lying prostrate with migraine when my favourite authors were in town, and most importantly, I didn’t spew all over myself while driving furiously up the expressway in an attempt to get home before the blind dark hell that is migraine  fell completely.

Instead, I strolled like a normal person in the sunlight. I listened to poetry while watching yachts tack across the water. I made friends with a Russian poet as we queued for a session.I rummaged in the bookshop.

And I had fun.

So thank you SWF, and thank you radio national for providing the sound track as I travelled the miles to get there. Radio meant I got to hear the writers whose sessions I couldn’t get into, or couldn’t afford.