BIRTHDAY MONTH

We all know Robinson was born a month before Jesus, on November 25. That always makes November busy. She regards the whole month as her birthday and I’d be mad not to go along with it. Alcohol at any desired time of day. Gifts for the thrill of it all.

The unbearable lightness of being.

So things have been busy, turbo-charged by the end of lockdown. At long last we’ve been able to see friends. We went down Braidwood-way for a couple of days, battling the low weather trough to cross the Shoalhaven River into Bombay.

We went out to Woodcut restaurant for Robbo’s actual birthday in Sydney in the new, defunct, dilapidating Crown monstrosity. Man it was nice. Great food and service and quite a thing to watch Sydney reanimate. Lots of international business being transacted over an expensive lunch. Malaysian men in beige safari suits being hosted by balding Australians with bad ties and credit cards. Eastern suburbs brats whose drug dealers arrive late with shower-wet hair in shirts that don’t quite fit them.

And the blue water lapping at the end of all our tables.

Apparently people are leaving Sydney in droves. It’s over. Somewhere else is the place to be. The pandemic revealed all those big buildings are empty, actually and spiritually. It’s better to be eating fish and chips in a mall and throwing a stick for the dog on the Central Coast.

I can see the attraction – except for the Central Coast bit.

There’s a chance we’ll be stranded in a house on a cliff we can’t sell in Sydney but for now we’re reconciled to that and happily we like living here. We keep promising ourselves to do more with what’s available but usually don’t get around to it.

We are off to see Girl From The North Country in January.

We’ve just farewelled good old friends who were up for the weekend from Danistan Victoriastan. The weather here was shithouse (fine elsewhere) but the company was fine.

I need naps now, when there’s fun happening. Mid-afternoon. That’s either European or something more ancient. Lying down on a bed in the cloudy soft afternoon light is a new bliss. I would never have guessed that.

Life’s a mystery that blooms like a rose.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s