Tales of Supermullet and the White Man's Overbite

One and two half days in Adelaide:

Bleeding nose. Sunburn just walking to get the gin and tonic.

Wet hair on the way to the premiere. The coolest beer ever on a wide verandah overlooking the square as the sun blazes down in the evening.

Sweet Tired Tim on the lawn, and Fran gaining satisfaction from forcing people to be civil to her. Resisting introductions because this is leisure, not work. A party of triumph where Dave Gleeson is the best-known celebrity. Quentin excepted. Easy to cause a stir. Walk around. Alone. With a sense of purpose. In a loud dress. But then we're on the impressive balcony and I pick up the wrong beer and swig. Bits of dirt stuck to lip gloss. I do enjoy a bit of an edge but you need to keep targets in on the joke. Martinis at Distill. Organic. Marketing gone crazy. What, the olives?

I'm talking, talking, talking to a guy in a long grey coat about a Land Rover driven into a raging creek in a time long past. Talking about walking. Wearing only a drizabone. Having to call Danny. Arriving. To dry off. Blue skin. From the lining.

Then, chicken kebabs, and: "Walked off. Too popular."

The full circle of gin and tonic. Britney on TV.

A blue cattle dog tied to a tree in front of the Supreme Court. Laksa in the market and a fly. Dead. And caught between the glass and the menu. A yellow rope in front of The Exeter. Not allowed to set foot before. Coopers exclusive on tap.

Rain during sunshine. Intellectual dressing. Thinking too much about it. Giving myself these challenges.

Excuse me, can I just interrupt you from The Spectator to discuss my new earrings?

Pulteney Street. All the way. But asking as well. To be sure. Remembering the wideness of ashphalt (sp?) on either side. Straight down the middle all the way. That's freedom? Except making way for the car that proves us wrong.

Paul's Fish Caf. Questions. Can't I just be funny? Not set goals. Not have any kind of plan. Not admit shortfalls. Ten year plans are so meaningless if you're going to live forever. You'll never miss out on life then. The luxury to lie on the couch endlessly recovering from the night before.

The Apple Merchants. George Benson and Give Me The Night. Supermild, and so I smoke one. White man's overbite like no one has ever analysed it before. I teach them the gopher. And then the reverse gopher. I'm thanking the DJ and wincing at myself.

And then I eat one. An apple. It's crunchy. It's the next morning. I'm rifling through racks of vintage frocks and I can barely get my hands between them they're packed so tightly. They're adorable. They're surefire winners. And they're cheap.