Hecate, October 1st, 2005
It's Sunday. Sundays are always the worst. On a Sunday, when the housework is done, the floor gleaming, the washing hung in staggered sleeves of colour on the line, when there is nothing on the "IV and not even a crime book can hold her, and she has waded through every section of the Herald, the yuppy recipes and the fashion pages and the news features about Afghanistan or Cabramatta or Haiti, even the Real Estate sections, dully, dutifully, resenting the exclusive life they all seem to hint at, the soy cappuccinos and water frontages, the succulent gardens, the stainless steel, when she's st...
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