As I write we are in the midst of a purple-skied storm.
Curtains of water batter the window shutters. People arrive in the hallway breathing hard, wiping the steam from their specs, damping down their matted hair, huffily brushing at darkened, soaked patches on the tops of their thighs.
Sydney is no fun in the rain. Kings Cross is like Coventry. The Pink House is a prison. Stir crazy.
People loll on their beds exhaling loudly and puffing out their cheeks. Some lay with their hands behind their head staring at the bunk above them.
Some stretch and yawn. Some stand up suddenly as if the action will somehow trigger inspiration. It doesn't.
Some are strewn randomly across the TV room, under blankets, gazing half-heartedly at a flickering screen.
We try to think of things to do. We fail.
Can't wait till the weather changes.