I see myself as a pretty imaginative person. I like to think my mind is able to take off on flights of pure fancy.
I like sports. I’ve always enjoyed watching sport. As an Aussie, my preferences are pretty local – Australian rules football and cricket are my go-to games. Though I don’t mind a bit of tennis now and again. And I can even get into more foreign-based sports like soccer and baseball and (even occasionally) American football (though deep down, I reckon my all-time favourite sport is that wonderful Irish conglomeration of just about every other game – hurling).
I’m a creature of routine. Every day, every week, I tend to follow the same behavioural patterns. And one of the things I have sorted to a fine degree is my Saturday morning routine.
Saturday morning is one of my favourite times. Sleep in. Gradually raise myself out of bed. Eat a long, slow breakfast while reading the paper. And when I grab that paper, there is one section I always make a beeline for (at least after I’ve checked out the sports) – the literature section.
I have a terrible confession to make. I watch reality shows.
There. I’ve said it. I’ve given away my deepest, darkest secret.
There are a number of things I could claim in my defence. I could say that it’s not a deliberate choice, but it just happens to be where the tuning on the television ends up. I could say that I don’t give it my undivided attention, and usually find another way to occupy my mind while the program is running. I could say that as I’m too cheap to stump up for pay TV, there isn’t a lot of choice.
Today, I’m going to take a little musical interlude.
I love music. After writing, I reckon it’s my second most favourite thing, and it’s always been an important part of my life.
In this post, I could talk about the beauty of music. I could talk about the wonders of a delightful melody. I could talk about the way it can sooth your soul, and make you feel that the whole world is right. But I’m not.