48 hours in: The Moriarty Boot

On Friday morning...

...I start the day with coffee. I make the heart-stopping kind, on my little Italian stovetop. The closest cafe is an hour away, so I have taken on the role of home barista in earnest. I am one step away from roasting my own beans. Sometimes I think about getting a milking cow. Our kitchen floor is concrete and, as my daughter likes to point out, “cold and gritty, like a shed” and I am thankful for the soft insole in my new Moriarty boots. Maybe I need to get my daughter some of these boots too. It would be easier than a new floor.

Friday...

...is a working day. If you were to walk in now, you’d see me at my desk dressed for Zoom meetings for my magazine Galah, surrounded by my computer and companion screens and stacks of notebooks. It’s not in Zoom-view, but what you’d also see are Ed’s unused elliptical exercise machine with bath towels hanging off it, four not-unpacked suitcases, contents spilling. Art stacked against the walls, waiting to be hung. Yoga mats. Another desk, covered with various charging cables. A bed in the distance.

In amongst all this chaos, these elegant boots and a nice outfit make me feel like I have some of my life together.

In the afternoon...

...I take a trip to town. We’ve got people coming for dinner tonight. Normally I can cobble together something with what’s in the pantry, fridge and veggie patch, but it’s all pretty Mother Hubbard here today. The chickens have gone rogue - God knows where they are laying their eggs - and I don’t even have flour. Time to go to town.

Texas is about an hour away, on the Queensland side of the border. I love this little town and its wide main street that would look at home in an old Western movie. I park right outside the supermarket and walk the block to do my rounds. The Moriarty boots are comfy and not at all slippery thanks to the rubber on their sole.

One the way back...

...I make a pit-stop in a little village called Bonshaw, with a store that sells fuel and basic supplies. I’ve got into the habit of stopping there on the way back from town, buying an ice cream and enjoying it on the bench outside, alongside the neighbourhood children or truckies or whoever happens to be around.

By Friday evening...

...I realise I probably shouldn’t have stopped for that ice cream because now I only have half an hour before our dinner guests come over. I quickly make up some pizza dough, jump into the shower and then throw on a dress with the boots. The Moriarty boots pair so well with the dress. I don’t feel like I was eating ice cream at a fuel stop half an hour ago.

Saturday morning...

...begins with coffee, of course, followed by some serious armchair time with a book. I’m reading Alan Rusbridger’s Breaking News about the evolution of journalism and media business models and I cannot put it down. The Moriarty boots are so comfy, I forget to take them off.

Saturday afternoon...

...is spent fanging around the farm with my husband Ed. We keep our careers quite separate - I focus on Galah and he focuses on the pecan farm - so I love jumping on the back of the motorbike with him at the end of the week for a farm tour. He takes me around to the different varieties of pecan trees and gives me an update on where they’re at. We check out what creeks are running and how much water is in the dam. But mostly I love it because I feel 18-years-old again, cruising along on a motorbike with my man. What is less romantic is the boiling hot exhaust pipe near my ankle that I sometimes forget about. The boots do a perfect job at protecting my leg from the exhaust pipe. And they look good too.