full throttle bliss

The year has tilted into Summer. It’s been 30+ degrees all long weekend here in Sydney.

I know our planet is spinning like a top at a kid’s party, wobbling towards the skirting board at the edge of the universe, but it feels a bit early for all this. Nevertheless I unplugged the heaters and carried them up to the loft. I dusted off the fans and carried them down.

I wore shorts and drank beer.

When the shorts got too hot I gardened in my underwear and drank water.

When the underwear got too hot I got nude and lay in the hammock and drank red wine. Probably a mistake. I dozed and dreamed across decades. Mosquitoes bit my balls. Red wine stained my chest. I woke up and it wasn’t 1978.

I watched the football finals. AFL: shithouse. Another year ruined by the piss and poo Hawthorn football club. Niggardly, nasty rubbish. NRL: magnificent. What astonishing drama. Untether the Sydney Opera House and let it float out to sea as a bingo hall. All you need is grass and grunt and no script. That was superb.

The Wallabies beat the fat blokes of England! That was a great start to yesterday.

We went out to lunch In Caringbah, cooked and served by magnificent May M. in her nineties. A friend returned from France after tending to her dying mother. New neighbours moved in across the street. Wallington said they were having sex on their upstairs deck when she came to bed. Good on them. You’ve got to move into a new house.

Today Currawongs ate mulberries from the tree in the back garden and rainbow lorikeets bathed in the bird bath. The rocket lettuce has gone to glorious yellow seed. The garden grows so fast you can see it move. I’m reading Captain Matchbox And Beyond: the music and mayhem of Mic and Jim Conway. Maybe that’s why I was dreaming of 1978?

Since making whoopee became all the rage it’s even got into the old birdcage.

Don’t stop the world. I don’t want to get off.

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