I am still here. Will try to post again soon ☺

Dear Diary

Had a wonderful night; caught up with a bunch of wonderful people. Getting a bus to North Adelaide for the do meant a fairly good walk to catch one that would land right out the front of the Royal Oak. Therein it was happy birthday to you Sarah Martinelli so glad to see you, and you too Chris and Ashley,  Matt , Kristy and Drew. At nearly ten, after a lovely time and lots of food and a handful of trendy craft pints, a quick check of the very smart phone shows that an infrequent bus home goes past the door in three minutes. Quick kisses and handshakes and the bus is on time, and the speedster at the wheel is in my distant northern suburb in a flash. And just as I get off the bus all the lights in my suburb go out.

With a heavily overcast sky I can't see the footpath or the fences or the gutter.  The lights from approaching cars shine in my face preventing any chance of my eyes adjusting to the dark. It's a strained walk home. At my front door a kilometre and a half later, that very smart little phone provides a torch to find the lock and get inside and to start lighting candles. I can still light the gas and boil the kettle but I can't watch TV. The wifi is out, so here's a chance to turn on the very smart phone hotspot to connect 3G to the smart iPad, and start composing a first world whinge blog after this spooky end to my rare saturday night out . The candles are throwing all the light I need, Facebook is fired up, cup of hot tea at hand - and the lights come back on.

And now my house pongs with that rank smell that comes from blowing out candles.

One Christmas Eve at Gawler races

The clerk of the course is doing a slow lap around the horse stalls between races, dressed in his dirty white pants and his scruffy red coat, and riding his scruffy old white horse. The clerks’ horses are renowned for their placid nature and don’t get rattled even by the edgiest and jumpiest thoroughbreds who play up in the stalls and at the starting gates.

But in a moment this old horse is totally spooked and wild eyed, rearing and squealing. The old clerk on his back is having enormous trouble staying in the saddle. The horse manages to back away but continues to fret and dance around. The frightened animal keeps a fixed stare on a tiny girl standing in the middle of the path. 

Her eyes, too, are wide and frightened; her face painted with brightly coloured spirals that must have been copied straight out of horse hell. 

Observations from the porch

I don’t see much of the Aboriginal family that lives down the street; except sometimes when a noisy uncle comes to stay. On Saturday night just as daylight was fading I saw a young couple, I guess in their late teens, coming up the street on a pushbike. She in a little black dress looking very smart and made up for a night out I reckon. He in a pair of fresh black cargo pants and a crisp green shirt.

She is sitting on the handlebars, with feet pointing forward and hanging on for her life.

Suddenly right in front of my house their back wheel locks up, with the chain in a tangle - and in an instant she is shot off the handlebars.  Somehow she manages to hit the road running and stays on her feet.

He curses a few times as he fiddles with the bike, and she sits on the edge of the road waiting. He does a few circles and makes some more adjustments and they are off again, with her bum back on the handlebars and her feet pointed down the road.

They build up speed quickly and when they get to the corner he hardly slows to look each way, and the bike shoots across the traffic and heads down the main road and out of sight.

***

It’s hot, and the gentle evening breeze is wafting the smell of barbecued fish from somewhere across the neighbourhood.

And somewhere in the distance I can hear the faint strains of a brass band.  

Yappy Easter

There's a yappy little dog next door, with a family staying there for easter.  It was making a racket just now, and I whispered through the fence.
"Shut up you little mongrel, I know for a fact your mother was a bitch, and so was your grandmother."

And it shut up. 

The Laughing Boy

There's a bloke I first saw around here more than 30 years ago.  A tall and stringy teenager.   He'd appear at a local intersection, but wouldn't cross it.   Perhaps his mum told him only go to the corner today.  He would have a little radio in his hand and look like he was laughing  - slapping his leg then throwing his head back, mouth open in great delight, and then bending forward holding his stomach and bending one knee.  Maybe someone inside his head was telling him the greatest joke of all time.

Another time you'd see him walking. Miles away. Always at an urgent pace, with long purposeful strides. You could see him twice in one day many miles apart striding it out, sometimes running.

As the years went past I saw him doing the same from time to time, but getting more grey haired without looking any older.

And then for some years I didn't see him and forgot about him.

Now he's turned up again - laughing at an intersection - albeit now with earphone buds - or striding it out with purpose.

He's still tall and stringy but his hair is dark again. 

He looks just like he did 30 years ago.

There's no god out here