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I'm home. My brain is following at its own speed. My allergies seem to have been left behind in Sydney, which is reassuring because I had a few problems this time round. Apart from that, it was a lovely visit.

I have to admit, much as I love Sydney and all my Sydney friends and family, the thought of not travelling until January is tempting. Although there are plusses to bus travel and bad nights. I've read 6 books since Friday.

My mail today included an invitation to my nephew's wedding in New York and I *so* want to go, but I can't. I shall put the invitation somewhere important and admire it. I shall refrain from crossing out the groom's name and writing in 'Mork' because it's uncouth and totally wrong. Besides, he's the sort of person who would get even.

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Every time I discover a writer in love with the variety and richness of words, I stop and take a break and rediscover different facets of writing, just to give my mind a rest. That's what I did just now. I had a Susan Hill in my backpack and I've spent a happy half hour with her careful language. My mind feels rested.

It struck me that for some writers words are a cast of thousands, peopling their stories, but for others, words are a different kind of mechanism. Hill doesn't spend a lot of time adding adjectives and adverbs in gaudy arithmetic, nevertheless her houses and her people have strong personalities. Even her stones communicate clearly, using the simplest words.

Alan Garner sometimes does this, too, and Peter Dickinson. It's not that these writers can't play with words or revel in the richness of language, it's just that when they do something else, the story shines in an entirely different way. The pauses and the breaths count more than the adjectives, perhaps.

Time to stop talking and read some more.