Beverly Walton
If the opportunity to reflect and reconsider the move did present itself in those early weeks of planning, I certainly ignored it. I steamrollered my way through preparations for the move to Tasmania, happy in my favourite role of problem solver. It wasn’t until I walked into the strange kitchen, located the pantry, and stored the few bits I had picked up at the supermarket near the airport that I understood the enormity of my decision. And I’d forgotten to buy milk. The property in Tasmania was beautiful, isolated and I was alone. This was sink or swim stuff. It would last a year; a year in which I would be resentful, defiant and sometimes content.
