Imagine that I am saying this in hushed and reverent tones: Claire’s grandparents took her off our hands so we could go out for an evening.

We scampered to the Academy Twin to see Lost in Translation, then spent an hour in Ariel pawing at the pretty books, then wandered down to the Pink Peppercorn to meet Mister Pesce and Miss Emily and Emily’s Jeremy for spectacular Laotian food (roast lamb, salmon with fennel and dill, searingly hot laab chicken and prawns.)

We talked about swordfighting with cadaver parts and the internal composition of the human penis (“spongy”, says E’s J.) We talked about art deco furniture: E and J picked up an oxblood leather club lounge and two matching chairs from a neighbour for the princely sum of $200. Score! We talked about London and New York and San Francisco and Los Angeles and Sydney, comparing the real estate market and quality of life in each: species of spaces.

E’s J had to go home to study – he’s practically a doctor now. The rest of us wandered through Surrey Hills to discover that Mark’s yuppie apartment block is built on a warehouse where Emily attended a rave in 1994. From the roof garden and pool we surveyed the city lights and the incoming weather.

Mark’s one-bedroom apartment is a stunner, with a huge Northern exposure and wraparound balcony and hardwood floors and, at present, almost no furniture. Very Zen. We drank chamomile tea and deconstructed various mutual friends to three or four decimal places, and then I found that it was 9:30pm and I missed Claire with a violent pang. And so to the taxi stand and back to Cooper Park.

C was moderately pleased to see us. She’d had a long snooze and endless games with her grandmother. Lost in Translation made me a little sad for my old life, with its business trips and high-rise hotels and late nights talking to intriguing strangers, but then there was that lovely line when Bill Murray’s character pointed out that your children are the most delightful people you will ever meet. A night off every now and then is plenty.

When I was a kid I never understood why grown-ups obsessed over little details. What about the big picture, huh? Why not talk about Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Love? Now I am that grown-up, and I have long conversations with my mother-in-law about how sad we are that the majestic bougainvillea that used to grow up the front of the house on Cooper Park Road had to be cut down. The tree surgeon who carted it away said it weighed three hundred kilograms.

I was genuinely grieved to hear it, and worried that the house would look raw without it. In fact it just looks different: barer, sure, but you can also see its lovely clean Frank Lloyd Wright-ish lines. I’m quite surprised at how happy I am to be here. We got married in the park across the road and had our reception here, so the house is full of joyful memories of floating around in my fantastic ivory silk-satin Reva Mivasagar wedding dress, drunk as a lord on champagne. Jan bought the Marimekko shower-curtains at Crate and Barrel on Union Square in San Francisco, and from where I am sitting in her office I can see no fewer than six photographs of Miss Claire, taken at our old place on Alabama Street and in the garden in Villerouge. It’s a temple of Claire, and I approve.

I’d also forgotten how much I love Sydney. The weather is humid and overcast – both very kind to my chapped and tanless skin. I forget how delicious the garden smells. I’d forgotten the heavenly quiet. Right now all I can hear is the wind in the leaves of the palm tree next door, and a butcher bird.

This morning we had the obligatory Big Brunch at the back table at Petit Creme. As we approached the cafe a large stranger approached me with open arms; it took me full seconds to recognize Mark Pesce – a far slimmer and more muscular Pesce than I have ever seen.

“This city suits me,” he says joyfully. “I’ve never loved a job so much. I’m not leaving till they kick me out.”

He asks me how’s tricks, and I tell him about the new apartment and the deal we got on the mortgage, and he starts to laugh.

“You can take the girl out of the Sydney real estate market,” he says, “but you can’t take the Sydney real estate market out of the girl.”

At which point Miss Emily turns up with her Jeremy, and I grill her on their new place.

“Two story two bedroom in Rozelle, back garden, gourmet kitchen with granite countertops and Smeg appliances…” she begins.

Mark is laughing his head off.

“Shh,” I say. “We’re downloading.”

The conversation turns to politics: Jeremy L. asks if we think Kerry will win. Mark blocks his ears and sings “La la la, I can’t hear you.” I ask if Latham will win, and we wonder whether he will be disqualified on account of man-boobs.

Adrian and Sam arrive with the adorable Korben Hugh; our coffees arrive and I take my first delicious sip; Barney arrives and cuddles his niece; Mister Bennett arrives and we begin, with relish, to insult one another.

“We like each other really,” says Mark Bennett to Mark Pesce.

“He likes me,” I say coolly.

Bigman arrives and I give him the gift of Ebola – a plush figure of the celebrated virus, brought with us from the States. Moira and Richard arrive with the perfect William John, and the conversation takes a yet more visceral turn.

“Korben eats only boob,” Sam brags.

“Hey! We got through half an hour before starting on boobs!” I say.

“No,” says Jeremy, “there were the man-boobs.”

I am chatting to Moira in an undertone about weaning Claire, and fail to notice the silence that falls around the table halfway through this story:

“I frightened the piss out of myself one night when I found a lump in my breast, but then I squeezed it and got a jet of milk in my eye.”

I look up to see everyone staring at me, my fellow parents tolerantly amused; the childless heterosexuals and gay men frankly appalled.

“So,” I say gamely, “how about that real estate, hmm?”

In Cold Comfort Farm Flora Poste carries with her and frequently consults a volume entitled The Higher Common Sense.

Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior is my higher common sense.

Salome’s phone rings. It has a special ring tone when it’s Jack calling.

J: I should get a special ring tone for when it’s Rachel. Darth Vader’s theme, maybe.

R (hollowly): The force is strong in this one.

J: Then when it rings I could pretend you were strangling me from afar.

R (being J): ‘Oh, it’s my wife.’

S: You guys are such geeks.

R: (to Claire, hollowly): I am your moth-er!

C: Nay!

J (who is reading Mil Millington’s novel Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About): Why would there be a Department of Signs AND a Department of Signage? What’s the difference between signs and signage?

R: Signage is like silage.

J: Fermented signs.

R: Yes. It’s stored in a signo.

J: I think you are being silly.

R: Silly… or signny?

The garbage trucks woke me at ten to six.

At six I woke again because SF General Hospital was going up in flames across the road. I scrambled downstairs and tried to call 911 with slow and boneless fingers. A woman looked me in the eye with amused contempt:

“They won’t come. The city is on fire. All of New York is on fire.”

I was dumbfounded. “How – ?” But she had turned away.

It’s just a dream, I told myself, and woke up. The fire was in Astrid’s house, a little way up Bluegum Crescent. My family and neighbours were in the street in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, avidly watching the blaze. I pulled out my StarTac and tried to call 911 with slow and boneless fingers. Big Al watched me with amused contempt:

“It’s 000 in Australia.”

I left them to it, and spent the rest of the morning rearranging jasmine and Meyer lemons on my patio, until I woke up.

“They shouldn’t kill him. They should let him die in jail, like John Gotti. Died of cancer. Or Al Capone, they had him at Alcatraz, he died of…”

“Syphilis.”

“Syphilis, that’s right. The doctors wouldn’t treat it, he’d go to them and they’d be all: ‘Take an aspirin.’ Heh heh. He was riddled with it, his brain. I saw that movie, that Alcatraz, and there was Scarface and then Al Capone. They treated him real bad. No respect. The guard said to him: ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Whassa matter with you? You know my name.’ ‘Name.’ ‘Alphonse Capone.’ ‘Number.’ ‘Whaddaya need my number for? I’m Al Capone.’ ‘Number…'”

“I realize this is very very sad, but I have a crush on Kyan.”

“You and five million other married women.”

“I know. I hardly even noticed him the first few times I watched, but he grew on me. He is built! Now I always play the credits just cause he looks so damn pretty.”

“With me it’s Thom.”

“Thom? I like Thom fine, but if Kyan won’t have me, it’s Ted or Jai.”

“Jai’s too short.”

“Jai is perfectly formed.”

“It’s true. He’s beautiful. But I looove Thom. I just don’t know whether I want to snog him or go shopping.”

Yesterday I made the acquaintance of not one but two brand new members of the human race.

First Mira, not even two weeks old yet, not even quite seven pounds yet, with nj’s inky hair and pianist hands and Morrisa’s velvety skin. She has a firm preference for sleeping upright on people’s chests, which I respect. When thwarted in this aim she mews furiously until obeyed. She is exquisite.

Then Angenie, nearly four weeks old now, sound asleep in the bustling Mifune noodle bar in Japantown, her mouth a perfect cupid’s bow.

I was squatting on my haunches over Angenie’s capsule, cooing at the beauty and perfection of her, when Shannon said: “Somebody wants a baby!” I ask you. You merely converse with a reputable infant and next thing you know, your friends and acquaintance are branding you broody. Please. Is this right is it fair? I already have a perfectly serviceable child, who, it is true, would make an excellent big sister… Oop. You nearly got me there, but I saw your cunning ploy in the nick of time.

So. Not broody, me. Nuh-uh. And soon I get to meet Korben Hugh and William John, yay!

J: I’m having an awful memory lapse.

R: ?

J: I can’t remember whether Ollie has died. (Ollie is his marmalade tomcat.)

R: I don’t think so. Peanut died.

J: Yeah.

R (maudlin): And Alfie. And Cinnamon and Nutmeg and Sugar and Candy…

J: Sugar died on your brother’s birthday.

R: I was twelve. I was very sad!

Pause.

R: I wrote a poem.

J (politely): Oh?

R: Let me see if I can remember… Yes. Ahem.

A wound so raw and open
A scar too deep to heal
A hole in the world
The size of a dog
O Sugar!
Come back!
Come back!

We howl with laughter.

R (dabbing eyes): I was very sad.

J: Yes.

R: But that’s a bad poem.

J: No! It’s a perfect example of the teen angst genre! Well, preteen angst, I suppose…

J: Paul gave me a present that will make you laugh.

R: Yes?

J: The November 1996 Wired.

R: The Burning Man one!

J: Yes. It’s hilarious. Your StarTac phone is brand new, and it costs $3000.

R: Ah, the future!

J: And there are all these Joey Anuff bylines!

R: Remember how in the future, we were all famous for fifteen minutes?

Pause.

R (wistfully): I miss the future. It rocked.

Experienced parents will shake their heads and roll their eyes or vice versa, but when my daughter exploded in a fountain of half-digested cereal, sweet potato puree and bile on Thursday night, it was a first for me.

The scary diagnosis with projectile vomiting is an obstruction, but Claire was hydrated and hungry and as two shoulder-blade-level Anomalous Poo Events the following day demonstrated, everything was moving along just fine. She’d spiked a fever earlier in the evening, so maybe it was a tummy bug or blocked eustachian tube.

Now I’ve got it, or something comparable; I get motion sickness just walking around, which really sounds like my inner ear doesn’t it? Ian and Kat were over last night, and Ian in particular clearly wanted to have the sort of grand political row we both used to enjoy so much, but beyond the bare fundamentals of getting the toddler’s needs met I couldn’t form a sentence.

Even this post is being written between trips to the kitchen to cut slices of orange and break off pieces of baguette for Cian. Miss Claire, coated with a thin sheen of spaghetti and meatballs, is cooing at her sock. I think she needs a bath now. My ambition has dwindled from writing a great novel to writing a novel that doesn’t suck to reading a novel again, one day. So why do I feel so happy?

“Oh, I have some great stories about Rummy.

“We were in one of his conference rooms and at the end of the meeting, somebody asked, ‘So, what’s it like to be the Secretary of Defense of the United States?’ Rummy thinks for a moment then says ‘Come with me.’ We follow him through another conference room and into his office, then he goes into the bathroom. We all look at each other and he sticks his head out and says, ‘No, no, it’s all right, come in.’

“So we follow him in and there we are, ten or twelve of us crowding into his private bathroom, and the walls are lined with cartoons lampooning him, all of them framed. He reads four or five of his favourites out to us, laughing, then turns to us and says, ‘Gentlemen, this is what it’s like to be Secretary of Defense of the United States.’

“On the way out I see a photo of him as Secretary of Defense under Ford, shaking hands with what looks like a young Colin Powell. I ask him about it. ‘Yep, that’s Colonel Powell,’ says Rummy. ‘Hasn’t he done well? General, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Secretary of State. And here I am in the same job.’

“I knew Rummy had been a wrestler for Princeton, so I asked him about it during a photo op. ‘How’d you know that?’ he asked. ‘Well, sir, I wrestled for Penn.’ He gives me this look and he says, ‘I never lost to Penn.'”

I like Tuesdays because the library is open late. My Claire the dear golden-haired wreathed-in-giggles delight of my heart and I like to head up the hill in her canary-yellow all-terrain stroller and spend a happy hour or two chewing crayons, banging on the Internet terminals and spurning board books. Last night I picked up the Father Brown Omnibus, Ender’s Game and Taliban, a nicely perverse combination.

Libraries are such an unbelievably good deal, like NetFlix but free! I’m trying not to buy any more books until I’ve read everything in the Bernal branch. It’s a magnificent 1940 WPA project with the original murals and light fixtures intact. Last night the librarians were wearing Mardi Gras beads. Fat Tuesday! Ashes to come.

So I’m giving up pickles for Lent. It’s an appropriately empty gesture, because I never eat pickles anyway. I despise pickles. (Except capers, which are good.)

I realized the other day that if I died and went to heaven, it would look remarkably like this world, albeit with no one being hungry or sick or bereaved or in pain or thwarted in love or even vaguely miffed.

The really important difference, however, would be catching up on the novels Jane Austen had been writing since her death.

Favourite gifts:

1. Carole and Jamey running off to City Hall to make honest women of each other;

2. Miranda Simone Jaramillo.

At last, at last, at last!

Gay weddings (pics to come); Concon a success; source for good fish and chips found in Berkeley; Spirit and Opportunity; this:

Jeremy (reading Yatima): Wait – “This album deserves to be better known”??? Oh, right, you’re joking.

If your car gets locked in a parking lot at 9.30 on a rainy night, it helps to be friends with a flame-haired supergenius lockpicker.

We headed up to Sonoma for wine and fun. Jeremy got a tape adapter for Hedwig’s tune-o-tron, and he played me what’s called around these parts The Music The Young People Listen To: The Love Below/Speakerboxx, by Outkast. This album deserves to be better known! I got to the vineyard all jiggy wid it, and informed my friends that I wanted to see them on their baddest behaviour, and that they should give me some sugar, because I was their neighbour.

Replenished our cellar of Adastra wines; the 2001 chardonnay and the 2000 merlot, which for some weird-ass synesthetic reason tastes dark blue to me. Delicious, anyhoo. Off to The Girl and The Fig for a rowdy banquet, complete with glares from shocked locals. Claire greatly enjoyed her kale and pumpkin gratin, Jeremy loved the artichokes with his grouper and I inhaled mussels and a rack of lamb, as is my wont. The party wound on to a nearby bar but ended up in our room. Claire held court until she was tired and overwhelmed; then she cried until she had chased all the people away; then she cried because all her people were gone.

This morning we showed her the playground and the duck pond in Sonoma’s main square, then meandered down 116 and 101 listening to Lemonjelly’s Lost Horizons. It was a gorgeous weekend: we saw rabbits and ducklings and a hunting hawk. But the single thing I saw that made me happiest was back in San Francisco: it was the line of people queued around the corner of City Hall waiting to get married. Happy weddings, everyone.

We switched DSL and moved the Goop server. Sporadic downtime for the next day or two.