Up at 7.30. Shower. Why haven't I thought of the cottage as being like a sailing ship before? Inside's like cabins, pannelled white. Heaviest load of washing yet! Wrote to John. Out at half-past-ten in sun to post letters and stock up at the supermarket. Met Louise (Andrew's Louise). Then back again to read Patricia's Wybalenna before popping into town for aerogrammes. Lunch at Pierre's (smoked salmon cornets) when who walks in but Patricia and a young-woman-with-problems (squirming to be out of there, stiffening her face). Waldorf salad. P. likes the poems about Louisa Anne, so does her psychiatrist husband Eric. We talk of murders on the island. There's been one recently. Girl on a beach. Went to Museum, saw Kaye, photocopied the Grimshaw talk on Mrs M. Letter from John, card from Michael. Back to the cottage, finished Wybalenna, wrote to Bruce, then tried the Flinders Island poem. Felt strangely weepy. Whisky last night? Coming down to earth after the Grand Tour of the island? M. in Berlin and on the phone about her mother? First homesickness? Or realisation that the wind-up to the residency's begun? Yes, all of these. Dimitris phoned: come to Melbourne earlier! Day's simply disappeared. Time accelerating now. At 9.30 p.m. a drunken Canadian knocks and asks directions to Bald Hill, can of lager buckled in his fist. Wrote Hobart poem — and this — in bed. Eleven o'clock.