Curtin Writers Club

Shortly after my father died, probably in response to some deep and unacknowledged fear that if I didn’t buck my ideas up I’d be next, I joined a gym. After all, he was a fit man, still walking for an hour on the beach every day at 80. Everyone said he looked nearer 65, and he did; his striking shock of pure white hair the only visual clue to the truth. He had always loved exercise, sailing, swimming, cycling; he even took up skiing at 62. For me on the other hand, exercise h