In 2022, I was going through motions. I was burned out after shepherding two restaurants through Melbourne’s Covid lockdowns and emotionally burned to the ground by a failed marriage. It had been a big few years; I had sworn off love and was taking life slowly.
Despite all this, in late spring I found myself chatting online with a charming gardener-cum-physicist called Scott. A few weeks later, our first phone call lasted until the sun came up. I had been captivated by his boundless capacity for a chat but I didn’t hear from him for a few weeks after that. I wondered if it was because I’d asked him on more than one occasion to pipe down so I could contribute to the conversation, or if my cynical side had made an unflattering appearance in my wine haze.
