Can we imagine what it might feel like after Church Street? After The Arcade Fire? After the door that drags on the floor boards? After mornings with sun directly on our face? After the smell of the rain on the bitumen and new summer bats fighting to be heard over Foreign Correspondent. After a kitchen often full with guests and the to and fro of getting to the fridge, getting to the bin?

I hear the taxi driver story second hand in the evening, first hand at noon.

I go to Costume for Mary Jane's one size too large after the Westpac man stands on my foot in the foyer meaning my toes won't make it to the evening in the too-tight shoes.

Someone is locking the gates to the cemetry and I'm watching out the window. There's a girl barefoot on the footpath directly below saying: can you wait?

I'm creating genius playlists, suprised that I can remember my top five songs from the moment in the window at the Judgement Bar, impressed enough to save them.

And a pile of books is leaning towards the floor, Lady Chatterley's Lover on top, bringing to mind the beach in Thailand on which I read it.

Actually I am a beef stir-fry followed by a florentine.

I am a lamington.

North Bondi Italian Food

Braidwood

A Possum Ate a Cracker

We're sitting, four of us at the Chauvel, me and Ray and another couple a few rows forward and some seats across waiting for the new Australian film to begin. I'm eating a packet of cheese Twisties as a meal. I think these things: I LIKE being on holidays, new Australian films have it tough, why is my knee aching? Terry Serio was Johnny O'Keefe in the 80s TV mini-series, wasn't he? I bet Lisa's friend is glad she left the Chauvel, can everyone hear me eating? Turns out everyone can and Ray says I sound like a possum munching a water cracker. He's not talking theoretically. He knows. In an instant it strikes me that I know too. Suddenly I'm on a rug somewhere in the Botanic Gardens. It's summer. It's Romeo and Juliet or A Midsummer Night's Dream or one of those annoying mistaken identity type Shakespeares. Probably one or more of the performers have a wreath of leaves on their head. Probably someone gets their kit off. Probably it's Marcus Graham. No doubt we're eating humous straight from the tub off a rug of 90s citrus checks. Then at the edge of the crowd we hear a noise and we can make out a possum on its haunches holding a water cracker in both paws and noisily eating it.