Painting the Side of the Pub
In Kurri there's a man up a ladder painting a mural on the side of a pub. There are flames and firefighters and, with his outline in front of the orange licks, he becomes one of them as he paints. We drive up the hill and there's another pub with another mural. Perhaps it's what they do here. There are many pubs and I imagine him working his way around them all.
As we drive through Keinbah and there's a child in a flanellette shirt sitting on his shins in the paddock near his house. Like Michael K he is a gardener.
Sarah Blasko and my headache. Beck is at less than his best. Pickle is car sick and vomits on the back seat, but by the time we arrive he's eaten it so there's not really anything to clean up.
We pass three people riding woolly ponies and turn into the drive. Dark blue hills in the distance. At the bottom of the gully all we can see is the brown dry slope of the hill in front and a sliver of light blue sky. The stock yards are halfway up the hill and as we pass them the sky forms the majority of what's on screen in front of our eyes. Large. Large, and light blue.
I used to fly up this road with the back wheels sliding out towards the race as I took the corner too fast. Now I worry that my car will bottom out. Perhaps that's maturity. I think of it as age.
We eat chicken soup sitting in the sun underneath the jacaranda tree, and then I fall asleep on the lounge. The buzz of the horse races is in the background. Raining at Eagle Farm. From time to time Pickle sniffs close to my face and although I don't open my eyes I know that he's wiggling and wagging in order to prompt an exchange.
Tonight roast pork and then mandarin cake. We need to be done in time for the rugby and The Bill depending on your priorities.
We give the birthday presents. Fragrance for Lorraine, and we promise Hon a new wheelbarrow from the hardware store in the morning. He says he'll help us put it together. It's not occurred to me that it will need assembling: hardware is the original IKEA.
Hon mistakenly calls their dog by my name. I'm OK with that. She's a lovely dog.
As we drive through Keinbah and there's a child in a flanellette shirt sitting on his shins in the paddock near his house. Like Michael K he is a gardener.
Sarah Blasko and my headache. Beck is at less than his best. Pickle is car sick and vomits on the back seat, but by the time we arrive he's eaten it so there's not really anything to clean up.
We pass three people riding woolly ponies and turn into the drive. Dark blue hills in the distance. At the bottom of the gully all we can see is the brown dry slope of the hill in front and a sliver of light blue sky. The stock yards are halfway up the hill and as we pass them the sky forms the majority of what's on screen in front of our eyes. Large. Large, and light blue.
I used to fly up this road with the back wheels sliding out towards the race as I took the corner too fast. Now I worry that my car will bottom out. Perhaps that's maturity. I think of it as age.
We eat chicken soup sitting in the sun underneath the jacaranda tree, and then I fall asleep on the lounge. The buzz of the horse races is in the background. Raining at Eagle Farm. From time to time Pickle sniffs close to my face and although I don't open my eyes I know that he's wiggling and wagging in order to prompt an exchange.
Tonight roast pork and then mandarin cake. We need to be done in time for the rugby and The Bill depending on your priorities.
We give the birthday presents. Fragrance for Lorraine, and we promise Hon a new wheelbarrow from the hardware store in the morning. He says he'll help us put it together. It's not occurred to me that it will need assembling: hardware is the original IKEA.
Hon mistakenly calls their dog by my name. I'm OK with that. She's a lovely dog.
posted by noonie at 6:12 PM
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