I have ambitions. They lie like tigers, hidden in, (I suppose), metaphorical tall grasses. And then, at five in the morning, they pounce.

I think about the girls walking down Cuba street dressed in shabby chic and not at all surprised by the sudden gusts of wind that blow dust and leaves and everything else into the air. This wind could drive me to great madness.

Push it harder, feel it give, feel it wrap it’s arms around you. Smell the diesel fumes and plastic, let it go, let it break. Listen to your Maori guide tell you how his family has to plant two trees for every acre, how the council wants a national park and not homes. Down here the words don’t matter.

My parents argue about what had really happened on the train. The man with the wrinkle free face, his wife, her innocent question and my parent’s responses. I sit burning and angry at them both and wait for the apple pie to come.

Fjords: so much beauty deserves to have a poem written about it.

Guests lurch through the restuarant, an endless dance of acceleration and dramatic stops as the ship pitches and rolls. Outside the window, albatrosses follow us, gliding endlessness over the frothing waters.

You wrestle with the satellites and finally abandon the whole thing. Then when you’re not even paying attention, BANG, there they are…and suddenly you know where you are. You are on the jogging track, two older men chase each other in one direction, while another older man walks in a stately manner in the opposite. You are at 43 degrees and 45 minutes South by 154 degrees and 6 minutes East, on the Tasmanian Sea.

The juggler, proposes to juggle, three axes with yellow composite handles, over an audience member who is lying on the ground blindfolded. The feeling of desperation in the theatre is compete.

Laps around the quarterdeck. The merciless sound of flip flops. Exercise for the elderly in the middle of the Tasmanian Sea.