So. If you’ve been wondering where I disappeared to these last few days, the short answer is “everywhere except near a decent internet connection.” The long answer is this blog post, and I apologise in advance, because you all know by now that I have never once told a short story when a long one was available.

I flew up to Brisbane to tick off a list of Things That Must Be Done before the Canada research trip. (Yes, I’m still calling it a research trip. Yes, I’m sticking to that story. The hockey is research. The snow is research. Any poutine consumed will be strictly for the purposes of authenticity.)

Then, rather than fly home like a sensible woman, I drove. For those of you not up on your Australian geography, driving home to Tasmania means that at some point you run out of road and have to put the car on a boat. The overnight ferry is many things: an adventure, a test of the stomach, a surprisingly decent night’s sleep if the sea is feeling generous. What it is not, in any sense of the word, is online. No Wi-Fi. No signal. Just me, the dark water and a creeping awareness that my social media wasn’t so much slipping as falling down the stairs in a heap.

And then I got home, and instead of catching up on everything, I started pulling the house apart and putting it back together. The idea is that when we come home from Canada, jet-lagged, frozen and full of stories, we walk into order instead of chaos. Future Bella is going to be so grateful. Present Bella has dust in places dust should not be.

The Farm Report

First, the chicklets. (Chicken chicks, for the uninitiated. I refuse to call them anything else.) They survived four entire days without their helicopter mum hovering over them, and every single one of them made it. I’d like to say I was purely relieved. I was relieved. I was also mildly offended at how little they seemed to need me.

Then there’s the ducklet. She’s the lone survivor of a summer that included both the male ducks and the ravens, which tells you she’s made of stern stuff. She’s about six weeks old now, a big, beautiful baby, and she still doesn’t have a single proper feather. She is all fluff and confidence, like a bridesmaid who’s lost her dress somewhere around midnight but remains fully committed to the dance floor. The feathers should arrive any day now. I check every morning. She looks back at me as if to say, “Patience, woman.”

Meanwhile, In Hockey

Let’s talk about the moment my heart stopped.

Tom Wilson threw a hit and got tossed with a game misconduct, and I just about had to breathe into a paper bag. I was certain, absolutely certain, that a long suspension was coming. Because a) he’s Tom Wilson, and the league has a long memory where he’s concerned, and b) I had done the maths, and a suspension of the length I was imagining would have kept him in the press box right up to and including the last game we’re flying across the planet to see.

Picture it. Thousands of kilometres. Thermals. Snow I’ve never seen. And Tom in a suit.

But lo and behold, the hockey gods were smiling on all of us. No suspension. Not even a phone call from Player Safety. Sometimes, just sometimes, things work out.

And while we’re on the subject of hits, Chych laid out what might genuinely be the hit of the season, and that didn’t draw any supplementary attention either. Excellent news for everyone except, I suspect, the gentleman on the receiving end.

Which brings me to the most important point of all: the sisters’ trip is safe. Jo (my long-suffering sister, who has survived far worse than a Bass Strait crossing in my company) and I are still on track, Millie is still counting down from the Pacific Northwest, and the boys we’re going to see will all, fingers crossed, be in uniform rather than in suits.

One More Thing (Because Of Course There Is)

I almost forgot, and I would never have heard the end of it. The signage for my office shed arrived today. It’s official, it’s on the door, and I can now formally welcome you all to the Smut Hut.

This is where the magic happens: the writing, the podcasting, the blogging, and a fair amount of staring out the window at the mountains while pretending I’m plotting. There’s no cats allowed (their rule is the only one they’ve ever obeyed), there’s always a kettle within reach, and there is absolutely a chair with your name on it. So come in, kick your shoes off, put your feet up and stay a while. Just mind the stack of notebooks by the door. It bites.

Over To You

Now that I’m back online and the house is slowly coming back together, I want to hear from you. What should I be researching while I’m over there? What do you want to know about seeing hockey live for the very first time, from someone who has only ever watched it on a screen at ungodly hours of the Australian morning? Tell me in the comments. I’ll take notes. Probably on a napkin. Possibly in the dark.

In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be standing at the duck pen, waiting for feathers.

Bella x