My love of literature has always led me to festivals. I like to listen to writers talk about their work and take notes. I have books and books full of notes on writing and authors and themes, for what, I’m not sure. Yes, I do like to write and yes, I do plan to write a book sometimes – isn’t that what everyone thinks they might do one day? But reading through some old notes just now I find that my observations of others attending festivals to be just as entertaining. Perhaps they should become characters in my book one day?

Observations: Melbourne Writers Festival, 2008.

• Long grey hair tied back with a brass elephant clip
• The prevalence of polar fleece
• Neat ‘Balwynese’ women with tight fitting jackets and pageboy haircuts or fisherman’s pants worn with rough cotton sacks that pass for a blouse – the omni present clogs or crocs
• the long-haired, horn-rimmed ex-star-trekker longing for belonging

We all queue to have our book, their book, signed ‘with best wishes’ when we know they really don’t give a toss and nor do we except to say, I had the author sign my book and the thanks, it is for some imagined friendship or statement of gratitude for some mysterious deed.

Meanwhile Robbie Williams Angels fly around and men in Fedoras wait patiently for panting wives and understanding.

The serious looking over 50s find delights amongst the lemon tarts and discuss the atrocities of porn.

People pretending to be someone, or something with inquisitive gazes.

Writers festivals attract many types, those book loving individuals who are skilled at reading and escaping reality, but who it would appear seldom live on their own. The confident women who extend their minds, as well as their limits, when they allow themselves time to sit and read and not find something more practical to do and those of us who reserve our reading time to when all others are in bed and our partners otherwise occupied, by sleep or television, and we can at last indulge in the escapism of a novel.

The book can take us on journeys we never imagined, to places we will never see, lives of those we do not know. It can take us to horrible place of pain and angst or untold idylls of love and romance.

All we need is a book, the light to read it by and the comfort of solitude in which to enjoy our journey.