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I write in my journal the list of jobs for the week. The second most important point is the beginning of it. This essay is part of a new Sydney Review of Books essay series devoted to the labour of writing called Writers at Work. The cold is a living thing in this old house.
It snakes under doorways, through glass thin with age, wraps itself around my legs, creeps into my toes, stiffens my fingers and hardens my nose. In the dawn I push through it carrying a copper pan filled with glowing coals. The pan warms my hands, metal soft, the coals glow and I shake them into the dark fireplace and blow.
The coals lick and suck on pine cones and slivers of bark till flames leap. Under the desk my black Labrador sleeps and chases wallabies through the bush, her muscles twitch as she swerves and leaps, her breath ragged in muffled yips.
Sun punctures the thin glass window and warms my hands. In the courtyard the two-way radio crackles. I put down my pen and walk, seized again by cold, to answer.
A punctured tyre on the tractor, a quick five-minute job, but far away up the paddock. And so I stand beside the wheel as tall as me and hand down tools to the swearing farmer on the ground and the hours stretch into afternoon.