I’m Wes Bamford, a knock-about Reader’s Digest fan and sherry sipper. Farmers’ lads, who challenged me in a big ring, treated marbles like a clash of planets and made their rules the centre. I accepted my limits gradually: scanning the void with my little torch, and seeking tails of comets. I humped matter during my strong years and stacked it with simple logic at Yarrabandai, and beyond Cargelligo where grain is gambled. Then I worked for Greasy Stevens, the tractor mender, who dreamt of retirement paddocks, while placing wrenches onto empty spaces. I spent the Thermos and sandwich hour pondering…