It is of constant surprise to me, Tilde, that I now find myself in this stolid little house in Fitzroy, feeding pennies into a slot to run the gas. You have always said I was contrary by nature. If I had started out poor, no doubt I would now be married to a rich man—although perhaps, lacking the charms to net a rich man, I am overly optimistic.

Instead our mother got a drop-out daughter and a son-in-law who wears an apron for a living. Didn’t I just thwart her brilliantly? Send her my slummy old love, will you? Jo will sell the St Kilda restaurant soon and I’ll send her a present with the proceeds. (Diamond necklace?)

Love Veda x

† † †

30 NOVEMBER 1961

Dear Tilde,

Have just got in from the Parishes’. I believe I’ve mentioned them—he, the famous poet and she, the wife. Spent the weekend at their Estate (there is no other word for it: it is vast though there ain’t a paddock in sight). On said Estate we get ‘in touch’ with Nature. Jo looks at paintings he doesn’t have the words for with Mr Parish, and foodstuffs (which he does) with Mrs. P. We went for the whole weekend, which means we must suit ourselves, and wander, and fill in time as best we can. I, for my part, am at a loss to do much there but walk and smoke, fearing the ‘pose’ of settling at the window with my notebook and pen. For, as I am never asked of my own literary prowess (except by Mrs, occasionally, in whispered undertones) I cannot bring myself to foist the ‘fact’ of it (dare I call it ‘fact’?) into the Parish consciousness.

They are friends of a different cut—(may one describe a friend like a trouser?) Much better to chat about food, or to prove myself a discerning reader of other people’s work. I acquit myself intelligently enough in literary discussions. I have given opinions on the latest offerings in Southerly and been agreed with, though with reservations. Mr Parish has a new collection he hopes will come out late next year. He expounded on that, as much as poetry of one’s own might be expounded upon. I did not mention my second-rate readings in second-rate rooms with second-rate poets, where I briefly thought myself a rising star before it became apparent that it was the same eleven men poets, every reading, and I was in fact getting nowhere very fast in their company.