Dusty, orange Sydney

This morning I woke from a wonderful dream, featuring some galpals and moi and our new super bestie Stevie Nicks, to enter a world where the natural light peeping through my window's venetian blinds was a glaring reddish orange.

I thought that there had been a very bad bushfire or a nuclear attack. It was/is very On the Beach meets the Midwich Cuckoos but like in real life. Eerie.

I then went to the world wide web and cosy old smh, which featured a report, Where's our blue sky gone (or summat), that explained the thick orange haze was caused by a dust storm.

The flat's hardwood floors now have a filmier layer of dust, it feels like talcum powder and my soles are oh so soft but orange. Llladies of Sydney put away your Thin Lizzy/Glo bronzer NOW.

The change of light is extraordinary. The green traffic lights are now a shade of turquoise, it is a turquoise man who indicates when you may cross the road. Most of the car lights are a lovely iceberg blue as are the Tupper streetlights; not quite the heartbreaking beauty that is the rosey hue of the lamps in Venice but still quite lovely.

I caught the bus into work, and all the passengers were very quiet; as hushed as on the Monday after lady di died (must get a burnt orange ribbonini at lunchtime to commemorate today's dust storm.) When the bus got further into the cbd the dust blanket increased.

Despite the wind still being rather forceful I saw shopkeeper on George Street attempting to remove the dust by beating his broom across the shop's entrance, and sending the dust to the next shop entrance. He really needed something practical like a leafblower.

Some people are wearing masks or scarves over their mouths and noses.

Over and out.

Two more for the Canon

The past fortnight or so I have had a hankering for some Dickens and Eliot, so Satdee afternoon I went to my favourite branch of the City of Sydney library. Alas the books I wanted were not there. Waaah.

Fortunately I stumbled upon a series of books based on the magnificent television show Rosemary & Thyme by Eastman. I borrowed two. So engrossing and so Blytonesque but i guess there is more talk of plants than food. Nevertheless they do have some nice cream teas, lots of crime, and glasses of wine when tucked up in their twin beds and googling suspects on Rosemary's laptop.

The Vernal Equinox

Has done in my sinuses. Pass it on.

Perches and twigs

Glory the ‘famous’ are falling like it’s the end of their life cycle.

The news bulletin concerning the death of Mary Travers featured comment from Athol Guy. Athol found Mary such a ‘warm and nice lady’ he yearned to hug her. I did not need to hear that while preparing my dinner.

The day before Mary’s death, Henry Gibson died. Apparently Mary Travers’s band inspired the feuding trio of minstrels in Nashville and Henry Gibson was of course in Nashville; utterly magnificent as Haven Hamilton. Oh these tenuous links are totally freaking me out. In truth Henry Gibson was pretty much a triumph in everything he did, comic genius!

Mal Leyland, Keith Floyd and Jim Carroll are also ‘famous-ish’ people who have recently died.

On Wednesday night the bus in which I sat stopped outside some building with a big television that was screening a repeat of that show with Elvis Costello and Lou Reed. First thought was that Lou had also died, then the bus stalled and i continued to watch Lou on the screen. And a second thought popped into my noggin which was that Lou had become almost alluring as senior. Now that is certainly something you do not need to read while surfing cyberspace.

Juicy days are here again

Well I am not sure if they are. In fact I am not sure what they are. However this morning when I read that announcement on a young woman's t-shirt apart from musing over its potentially lewd significance, I felt a wave of optimism.

The vernal equinox is only a few days away. Wisteria, poppies and cherry blossom are in bloom and the majority of trees have sprouted leaves the shade of peridot; all in anticipation of Spring and her grand tour for 2009.

Soon Rocktober will be upon us and I will be on hols - gadding about the countryside. Vale Mal Leyland.

G O R N E

Kyle Sandilands, the social contract, and now the Annette Kellerman swimming pool at Enmore Park. All GORNE.

I was walking through the park when I saw that the AK swimming pool had been completely demolished. Yes, not a skerrick of the complex remains, not even the scent of hot chips fried in ancient batter.

Between you and me, nsrs, i used to love doing the aqua aerobics at the AK pool. It was quite the workout (as we used to say in the 80's) and required intense concentration. Generally i'd focus on a cracked tile or some peeling paint when peforming some particularly grunty bumps and grinds while straddling that ridiculous and rather lewd noodle.

However, one day, when attempting a difficult twist while treading water, my focus fell on a person outside the pool. This human on the periphery puzzled me until I realised that it was actually a right on singer from an early 80' indie band. Unfortunately she was in my direct line of focus, and I couldn't retract my gaze. Worse she noticed me; i blame my bathing cap festooned with flowers. And double worse, back in the day things had been kind of, um, silly fractious between us. Hard to imagine, i know dot dot dot

In truth it was due to my youthful exuberance, well, general loudmouthery and mimicry of her buzz words and gestures - I told you that the social contract had gorne! Anyhoo I couldn't stop looking and then one by one more people came to her side, her friends, and they were all looking at me and talking as I continued to stare at her. I couldn't avert my eyes until the exercise finished. Eventually the class ended and I had to leave the centre. It was dark and I was rather worried that her posse would pounce on me. They didn't for they had GORNE.

Enough of my Busby Berkeley meets film noir aqua follies....

The old AK pool is making way for big new super deluxe aquatic centre. In the mean time one can bathe and do aqua aerobics at the Fanny Durack pool (she was apparently distantly related to Mary so it's not completely mindless of me to think Kings in Grass Castles, Kings in Grass Castles did i ever finish reading, Kings in Grass Castles? each time i think of that pool, so there!).

However, I won't go there for I prefer the Victoria Park swimming pool, open and long in lovely surrounds . I do worry about contracting aviance, er, avian flu - a lot of birdie business about there. But oh well if you don't take any risks in life you reap nothing. Well ,that's the quote on the foot of my desk calendar for today's date; it's attributed to Leanne Edelsten, who is these days best known as Jennifer Hawkins's mum.

Baby I'm bored

Speaking of precious cargo and parents... A month ago, I finished my working day and found myself at a seminar.
M E N T A L. What on earth will I do next? Well probably not further study at this point in my mind.

Oh brother, sitting in that seminar discussing literature with the dense, the conceited and the intense was worse than any of my many HSC/varsity nightmares.

Following some excruciatingly stupid, predictably petty observations about a particular writer, this person who had already demonstrated that she was the class's empty vessel asked/announced, in ponderous, moronic tones:

“ But HOW do you continue to find the energy, the ability to tap into your creativity, restock your stores, when you are a MOTHER and you give and give and G I V E?"

I’ll give you something, fecund, proud and procreation should not have been allowed. How about multi-tasking. Isn’t that what you 702/774 mums are renowned for? You're a mother and you're an insufferably annoying article; 10/10 so far, mumsy. I squirmed and submerged the lower half of my face under the polo neck of my powder blue jumper.

It takes a nanosecond to make a child and a lifetime of monopolizing any conversation to validate that choice. Put that thought on the foot of your desk calendar page, mater!