The phone rang with good news. I’d won a prize for writing a story and I was $50,000 better off. So I called the fanciest restaurant in our salt-encrusted town and made a booking for two. Sarah and I spruced ourselves up and drank a bottle of champagne and walked down the hill arm-in-arm.

They seated us closely sandwiched between two other couples, but I swore to myself I wouldn’t eavesdrop tonight. I’d have the night off from being a writer. To celebrate we chose a bottle of WA red, because the prizemoney came from WA.

We started with bread cooked in the woodfire oven and burrata and anchovies. The waitress was adorable, but who isn’t when you’ve just had good news? She was from Brazil and hadn’t been diminished by the finer protocols of Australian service, still friendly, not having yet learned the industry-standard standoffishness. She readily joined our conversations.

Credit: Robin Cowcher

“You write stories? Oh, my brother in Sao Paulo is writing stories. He will be a writer.” She offered her world up freely and, missing our daughters on this night, we........

© The Age