I hope, in my piece last month, I didn’t gush insufferably about the almost magically melded utility and amenity of my upstairs combined sleeping and “writing-study” apartment. Few nonagenarians can be so handsomely set up, and all that is only what’s inside, what’s behind the glass, so to speak. Outside lies a vaster infinitude of miracles which, with rough descriptive economy, we may call “The View”. Through a wide eastern window (unless it’s cloudy) the sun rises over an immense acreage of open unfenced parkland, with waterholes and billabongs as they drain their way irregularly down to join the Yarra…