In the dining room of a small country pub that has ambition, with tablecloths less than white and less than starched; where the seats of hard backed chairs are warmed by shuffling of exuberant diners, and napkins shaped to fit a small pope's head are spread to soak spilt shiraz (locally grown), I find an unexpected peace. On the wall above my lover's head, a painting of a pink vase and carnations (locally painted). It's poorly, but lovingly done; by a woman is my guess (locally grown). But it hangs here, proudly, and it seems to me - me, this city girl, who knows the news and the state of the world -that it hangs here, defiantly. We're still here, it seems to say - simplicity, integrity and goodness. We're still here.