Saturday breakfast on the Swan River. Bron Sibree and her friends invited us aboard for fresh fruit, croissants, champagne and to catch up with Kunal Basu and Susmita before they return to England.
In his own words:
“I was born, I am given to understand, at dawn on the 4th of May 1956, rather unexpectedly in our North Calcutta home, as my mother was hurrying to finish a manuscript for her publisher. It was a dangerous event that could’ve killed us both. I was delivered by my aunt in the library, gawked at from the shelves by an army of bemused authors. In the confusion of the morning, my father forgot to register the birth of his son with the authorities, which is why I don’t have a birth certificate. Raised by unorthodox parents, both litterateurs and political activists, I developed an early love for the arts: painting, acting and writing. The third of these has survived the vagaries of life, numerous false starts and unhappy diversions, and come to reign over my life in the manner of a grand obsession.
Since 2001, I have published three novels, a collection of short stories, written a few screen plays and copious volumes of (mostly unpublished) poetry. Since then my life has changed in both perceptable and subtle ways, acquiring the tinges of an author beside that of the university academic that I’ve been for twenty-odd years.
It will always be my next book that captures my senses most fully. This biography is a quick glance over my shoulders rather than a full look ahead.”

Louise Schofield came for lunch with precious peaches that she hand reared on her property in Gidgegannup. She made tiny paper soldier’s hats for each individual peach to keep out the fruit flies. I can imagine Louise, in her sun hat, with her geese and chooks encircling, honking and cackling, enjoying her patient presence. She told me tales of her new novel that I’m sure she‘s hand rearing, word by word, with the same diligence.