The smell of grass, warming sun, a cooling breeze, just a hint of autumn to come. It’s a haven from the mayhem and madness of Fringe, the gentle cadences of intelligent discourse and dialogue a murmuring under the trees. It must be Adelaide Writers’ Week. This is where the old (and I mean old) Adelaidian
“What do you mean, twenty-eighth of December? Proccie Day is the twenty-sixth, right?” “Wrong. You’ve been cheated out of a holiday,” I replied.