Hieronymous the Anonymous

Forever nights

Image by Mimi_K via Flickr

Like much of Melbourne I ended up at the beach last night. It was a hot day and a warm night, the second warmest on record for December according to the weather bureau. It was nice to be at the beach.

The yoga teacher had invited me over for dinner and a bottle of bubbles. I had driven over as the sun had headed towards the horizon. It was a good drive, little traffic, the sun roof open, another genius playlist pumping through the car - this one was labelled new wave: Devo and Big Country, The The, Tears for Fears and The Cars, plus many more. Great stuff. I had zipped along, at one with the vehicle as if I was controlling it by mind control, dodging the slow drivers in East St Kilda and avoiding the Elwood drivers who went through roundabouts without a sideways glance.

I was weary after what felt like weeks of socialising; but I was happy to. I knocked on the door with a bottle of sparkling shiraz and was let in.

Elwood is one of my favourite suburbs in Melbourne if only because it is one of the most distinctive. It's nicely situated by the beach and not far from the action of St Kilda, but with a nice villagey feel of its own. What really sets it apart though is its architecture, it's architecture and the trees and the streets whimsically named after poets, Tennyson, Keats and Byron, with Shakespeare and Dickens thrown in for good measure. The architecture is wonderful, great old art deco buildings right out of a thirties pulp novel. They've got style and attitude, and set amongst lush gardens they're just the thing.

The yoga teacher lives in such a building, though one of the less impressive ones. She has a small ground floor unit with an excellent L-shaped courtyard overflowing with an abundance of tropical plants left over from the jurassic age. The wall of the garden faces onto the street and is topped by fancy wrought iron stylings. We sat in that garden, drinking bubbles first, and then sharing a simple but very satisfying meal of lasagne and salad.

As we chatted I watched the goings on in the street. Over the road was an old apartment building, big windows and high ceilings with pretty cornices. The lights went on and off in those revealing the terracotta paintwork inside. The next door neighbours talked loudly, a family, and then all laughed together. Not long after they went down the street individually in their shorts, a towel over their shoulder and on their way to the beach. Then as it darkened further it became still. The yoga teacher went inside and I was left to ponder.

I took in the ambience. It felt good, like summer, a classic day, a classic night, our life, our times. I tried to explain when she got back. It's like in one of those movies I said, or in a book, you know, a balmy night when things happen and everything is so clear and particular as if its been engraved. You can see the night, how the breeze stirs the leaves just gently and the shadow of them shifting ever so slightly against the lit building while the conversation goes on, drinks are shared and glasses clinked and laughter tinkles into the still night watching and then the serious conversation starts and it's as if tomorrow is far away and another place and it's just now, all in these moments and she agreed the yoga teacher, that's what it's like.

Afterwards we went for a walk ourselves towards the beach. She gave me a stubby of beer to drink as we walked along. I feel very blokey now I said. Is it legal she asked. Who knows these days I answered.

It was cooler on the beach with the breeze soft coming in off the water and in the distance around the curve of the bay the city twinkling in the night. We walked along with her dog Kelpie on a lead. There were others with their dogs walking and others just walking. Here and there couples ate fish and chips sitting on the low bluestone wall facing out to see, and in the water people stood cooling off.

After a while we walked out onto the sand in a secluded spot. The yoga teacher found a piece of driftwood and threw it into the sea for Kelpie to fetch, and repeated that a dozen times or more. I slipped off my havaianas and walked into the water up to my knees. It was cool, and on the ground smooth, large pebbles. Then we sat together on the sand and talked about her plans.

Later we walked back. I felt good. My back felt fine and I was striding out so that she had to hurry to keep up with me. That felt good too. As we walked and discussed different things I remembered how everyone we passed had their own issues and hopes and things they have to deal with and throughout the country and the whole world thousands, millions more are just the same like I am and like the yoga teacher is, and occasionally and randomly we come into contact changing ever so slightly what the issues are and how we respond to them and that is the world.

I went home. It was late. She had given me a gift of shortbread and biscotti she had made and kissed me on the cheek by the car. I drove feeling content. The roads were emptier than before and my music played and I thought things through. I idly wondered if human consciousness had changed since cars came along. How many people drive along feeling all mellow while they figure things out. It's almost like you the driving sometimes to do the thinking. I do anyway, and I enjoy it. How did we manage before?

The cool air flowed in and before you knew it I was home, simple as that.

Silly, silly season

Hot yesterday, 39 degrees, and today poised for the balancing storm. As I look out the window the sky is brooding, the clouds low and heavy. The days tick by leading up to the big one. I walk to work each morning at 8 and walk home again sometime after 5, I change my clothes, feed Rigby and then I’m off again. It is a crazy season.

To coincide with the festive season I have also started off on a new batch of women. One last week, another two last night and the night before. I go for drinks hoping it will be short but sweet, eager to get back home and into some kind of routine. Predictably that doesn’t occur. Last week it went on to near midnight. The last two nights have been nearer to 10. I almost count on some ‘thanks but no thanks’ in these introductory phases. I don’t want to go out with three women after all and I expect that by a process of natural selection that will be whittled down to the single, (lucky?) girl. That will still happen, but clearly not as yet. I have my own ideas on the matter, but as it stands right now I’ve got the green light from each of them: proceed to the next step.

Part and parcel of all this has been a spike in drinking and, unfortunately, a decline in the solids consumed. Over these three dates I’ve been to the Gin Palace twice and Cookie the other time, as well as late night diversion to La Vita Buona. Because each of these have started early I’ve had to dash off before I’ve had a chance to fix a meal. It’s not altogether a bad thing to be eating less, but when I haven’t been skipping dinner altogether I’ve been scoffing an unhealthy late night alternative instead.

Tonight I’ll be eating well at the very least. I’m off to have a pre-Christmas dinner with Donna at one of the best restaurants in town, Ezard. I look forward to it in theory, but there is part of me that would happily spend the night home in front of the telly, a modest meal in my lap and the expectation of an early night and a good sleep in front of me. I’ve just started a new contract and I’d love to get into some routine, instead I am pretty unsettled.

It’s not about to change before Christmas. On Saturday night I’m cooking duck for Fong. Next week it’s dinner with the publisher at one of my favourite haunts, the Courthouse Hotel in North Melbourne; a few sundry pre-Christmas tipples; and a catch-up with my hairdresser, of whom I think I might be asking more of than a simple trim (though I’m in dire need of a cut – my hair is the longest it’s been for years). I can rest after Christmas.

Social dog

I've just returned from taking Rigby for a walk. Even after all this time he still gets excited. All it takes is for me to say the word and he's set to go. He's a pretty smart dog. I never say 'walkies' (beneath our dignity), and only occasionally say 'walk', but he always picks up on it. His ears prick up and he comes bounding over to me as if to encourage me further. Then he'll trot over towards the laundry, where his dog things are kept, looking over his shoulder at me as if to ask "should I get my leash?"

He is a dog of great enthusiasms, though it is some relief to see that he is slowly toning down his more exuberant displays. Still, to behold his pleasure is a great and simple delight. Oh to be a dog! Each morning he goes to collect my newspaper from the driveway. As I go to open the door he circles around in sheer impatient joy before bounding out to pick up the plastic wrapped newspaper. There, paper in mouth, he'll come back inside with his body  shifting side to side with the sheer force of his wagging tail. Good boy...good boy...I'll tell him as I prise the paper out of his mouth.

Right for the first moment I got him we have been communicating in a variety of ways, not the least verbal. In my experience is the most vocal of dogs I have ever come across. He hardly ever barks, but he makes that up with a variety of sounds that vary from an elongated yawn meant to signify something to more complex linguistic growls that make him sound something like Chewbacca. I have no doubt that these are intended as communication with me, and I respond in my own way, often with similar vocal stylings - though I have no idea what I'm saying.

He stays pretty close to me and is ever watchful of my next move, and keen to become involved wherever he can. When I stand in front of the mirror shaving he'll jump up and put his paws on the basin. He'll watch me, his head tilting from one side to the other, fascinated by the sight and looking as if he might want to have a try at that. He reaches for the shaving cream, or will look to lap up some of the water in the basin, and will try to climb towards my face if given half the chance.

It was his first birthday a couple of weeks ago and we had a party for him. I cranked up the barbie and had a few friends come over. He got a few toys and a nice big bone that kept him unusually quiet for a couple of hours. Then he joined us, going from one person to another and getting his due affection, and delighting in the attention.  He really is a dog that loves to be around people, but then most Labs do.

He's still a sonk though, still pisses like a girl dog and seems unwilling to catch anything thrown in his direction - though he'll happily eat anything. Most nights he'll end up on the couch (where he's not really allowed...) with his head in my lap napping while I watch TV. Every morning he'll try to join me by climbing up onto the bed and nestling beside me. Not long ago someone said to me the dogs are the only being who have met their god, which is us. It's very easy to see the truth in this as Rigby follows me around everywhere or looks upon me with adoration. It's hard not to believe sometimes that dogs have a quality that we sadly lack - they love without qualification or judgement. It matters not to them if you are fat or thin, ugly or beautiful, the class dunce or a Rhodes scholar. Through their shiny eyes they see only the better person inside you, and that person they love come what may.

It's not all beer and skittles of course. Last week I made a batch of Christmas cookies on impulse. They were very buttery and indulgent, shortbread almost with a touch of pecan in them and dusted with icing sugar. They were cooling on a tray on the kitchen bench when I noticed that Rigby had been absent longer than usual - and furthermore there was a strange noise coming from the kitchen. Sure enough there he is his paws up on the bench and gobbling up all the cookies on the front edge of the tray. He looked over his shoulder at me and wagged his tail, as if to say, aren't I clever, before coming over and jumping on me. He knew he did wrong, but what the heck, you can't blame him, and besides, those buttery cookies are probably better off in him than they are in me.

Small hopes

I've happened across an unusual number of dwarves lately. In the general run of events I see very few, but out last night I bumped into three of them either in the street or in a bar partying - one with a very tall and leggy blonde. And not 30 minutes ago there was another at the dry-cleaners when I went to collect a jacket. One shouldn't admit to this perhaps, but there was a voyeuristic fascination watching as he sorted through the clothes to be cleaned. They were women's clothes mainly, his girlfriend's presumably, and I wondered if she was a 'little person' also (isn't that the preferred terminology?). Perhaps she is another leggy blonde, in which case he's doing better than me.

The other thing about him was that he looked very familiar. He was short, obviously, but very much like Paige's boyfriend, who was about 6'2" the last time I saw him. For a moment I thought perhaps he had been shrunk to a size commensurate with his intellect, but no, disappointingly. That only works with dick size.

Hello summer

I had a CT scan and an ultrasound yesterday and had a lovely day regardless.

I worked through the morning doing this thing and that. It was a lovely day outdoors, the perfect summers day really, the temperature edging up towards 30 and the sky blue and clear. Towards lunch I visited my doctor and she instructed me to get the tests done pronto, so off I went to Fitzroy that afternoon to get the aforementioned tests done.

I always find it a little strange to be in a hospital environment, even when I'm visiting. My tests yesterday were at St Vinnies in Fitzroy, in the basement. I was called straight in and instructed to change my pants for the CT scan, first cab off the rank. I changed into a pair of navy blue cotton pants that reached to a little above my ankles, shapeless and very unfashionable, but infinitely preferable to the traditional hospital gown I was forced to don for the ultrasound, worn back to front and gaping at the back. Lucky I wore my good undies.

I was due to catch up with the yoga teacher later so rather than going home afterwards instead I drove into Carlton with the roof open feeling happy about myself. For the next couple of hours I walked up and down Lygon Street. I stopped for an iced coffee and a pastry. I poked my head inside a few clothing stores. I wandered around the lovely delis. And I checked out the bookshops, where I managed to spend money for myself and on Santa bag gifts for the family. Then I got a call from my broker. Good news H, he said, we've sold your contract. I had bought gold precisely a week before and had now sold with a $3,000 profit - not bad. Let's do this every week I told him. Then at 5.30 the yoga teacher arrived.

It was such a lovely evening that we popped across the road and sat outdoors at Jimmy Watson's having a couple of glasses of bubbles. The other tables were similarly full of people happily easing down on the day with a cold glass in their hand. A light and very pleasing breeze blew down the street. People heading home from work walked by with grocery bags in their hands. The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the gently swaying trees. Do we have to go? the yoga teacher asked. Good question, but alas we did.

We crossed back over the road to the Nova where we saw a movie preview with a box a popcorn and a choc-top each.

Even driving home afterwards was good. The roads weren't so busy, though it had darkened the weather was mild still and I drove with the sunroof wide open. I reflected on the day, on life indeed, unconcerned about my tests earlier and focussing on the simple and good things that come our way unbidden.

Too much is too much

My life is getting ridiculous. I'm getting way too old to be keeping so busy, and I really don't want to be. Sigh.

Last week I had a little rant about my lifestyle and ever since, despite my best efforts (ok, mediocre efforts) have been pretty well non-stop.

Last Friday went into the city for a drink. It was a warm, sunny day so had a few beers sitting besides the river at Riverland. From there went for a quick drink at Comme before making our way to the excellent Von Haus for a bottle of wine and some supper.

Saturday night went out for a bottle of bubbles and everything that goes with it.

Sunday I caught up with JV and his new girlfriend at the new pub opened up in Church Street, Royal Saxon. We compared Audi's (he's just a new one too) and then adjourned into the stylish interior of the pub for a long lunch. Very well done place, well fitted out, similar to their last effort at the Public Bar, but on a bigger scale, and well managed.

Monday? Mmm. Stayed home I think.

Tuesday it was Whisky's birthday and he organised an impromptu dinner at Ablas, in Carlton. Good venue this, and once more we had the banquet, which is great value. Everyone goes on about the chicken rice, which is good, but it is the chicken wings in garlic and thyme that are sublime. I must have had about 4 chooks worth, and I'm not normally a fan of chicken wings.

Afterwards we adjourned back to an apartment in East Melbourne. I started to head off at about 1.30 when I was waylaid by one of the other guests, an American girl. I'd met her once before about 18 months ago, and had a positive impression of her which was contradicted earlier in the night by her loud and raucous behaviour. I'm nothing but polite though, and so I sat down to talk to her. Her opening gambit was to comment on the usual party trick I'd played earlier in the night, what would you rather be, a vampire or a werewolf? Most people say vampire, which seems a bit boring and, on reflection, maybe unwise. In any case this girl now had now changed her mind to werewolf, swayed by my argument, and wanted to discuss it. It may have been the few drinks we'd had, but there was a definite sexual undertone to the conversation, highlighted by our pleasured agreement that a werewolf was sexier - much more primal and raw, and besides being on all fours can't be all bad.

The conversation was surprisingly interesting and wide ranging after that, and with the same undertones. I enjoyed it, though I felt a bit suspicious - I almost felt she was trying to seduce me, and obviously so, with her provocative conversation, her pronounced fascination with me, her body language - both open and assertive, and how she would run her hand through her hair as she spoke to me, as if she was in a shampoo commercial. Notwithstanding my earlier disapproval it's hard to turn from that when you're a red blooded male and she is an attractive woman with excellent breasts. I didn't get to bed until 3.30.

Last night I caught up with Becky. We met at Riverland again, an excellent summer venue (though overpriced), where we had a couple of beers, a pizza, and a bottle of albarino. Next we sought out a proper meal. We went to a restaurant in Fed Square, Feddish (thumbs down), average food and terrible service. Still, we ate and had another bottle of wine. By now Becky was well and truly fired up and so we wandered up to the city square for dessert and a nightcap. Then home.

Tonight I'm going to the Pearl Jam concert. Tomorrow night I'm off to a party. Sunday I'm shopping for BBQ's with the yoga teacher. Monday Becky has invited me to a formal industry and networking lunch. Tuesday night I'm going to a wine tasting and dinner with Donna. Wednesday is another lunch with old work colleagues. And so on.

Too much. I'm getting old, and this rate will be getting fat too.

The carnival is over

It's a bright, warm, silent Sunday morning. I opened the blinds of my bedroom earlier and the sun washed in. I lay in bed reading the newspaper and drinking my coffee. It felt so still, so peaceful, that I read only cursorily before casting the paper aside. It was not that I was restless - just the opposite - but that I simply wanted to savour what was for the moment and would, if I could manage it, have halted time for a little while, or at least slowed it down. As it was I had an hour or so of grace.

The last couple of weeks feel unsettled looking back. The flow that comes from following normal routines has been largely absent. In the place of that has been unusual events that one must react to deal with, like a blind man following a familiar route discovering suddenly that in his way are obstacles that were not there before.

These 'obstacles' are hardly obstacles in the real sense, and in fact have been quite fun more often than not. It has been a little interlude in the normal way of things, something many Melburnians would have experienced in a similar way to me.

In large part it is the Spring Carnival that has done this; that and the bright, unusually warm weather for this time of year.

In the first place the Spring Carnival is such a celebrated time on the calendar that it is much more than a number of storied horse races and the excuse to party. There is a festive flavour to life in Melbourne over this period, even for those who have no interest in the racing. For the rest of us there is a certain romance in following the fortunes of trainers and jockeys, and favourite race horses. Almost everyone, including the biggest duffer, has an opinion suddenly, and a vested, but light hearted interest in how the romance unfolds.

At the same time there is a loosening of normal bonds that tie us to the familiar patterns I spoke of earlier. In part it is disrupted by the mere pattern of days - we have a holiday midweek after all, to watch and celebrate a horse race. People glam up to visit the track or else they stay home to watch with a betting ticket in one hand and a drink in the other. A kind of festive and intoxicating spirit permeates the ether. Monday night before the Cup is a good time to party and the few days after the cup feel too light-hearted to take seriously.

This year we are experiencing a spate of fine, quite warm days over the carnival. It looks divine, and for those not heading for the track it's nice to pull on a pair of shorts and feel dressed. While it's not unknown for it to be this warm this early in the season, it is unusual to have so many warm days clumped together. It is a reminder of the summer looming before us, of Christmas, of holidays, of parties and the beach and cricket and cool drinks and everything else summer represents. That's what I think anyway.

In my case I certainly feel interrupted.I have been very busy, in the thick of it really, and on a peaceful morning such as this find myself sighing and yearning for the 'me' time I have put to one side. The period is ending and I am glad because while it was good it was also enough. A little familiar routine is not necessarily a bad thing, and besides, it's nice to return to the other things you need but find neglected in times like this.

I'm afraid I must put that off at least another day unfortunately. The last couple of nights have been very pleasant and quite late, and today I have people coming for lunch. I must be entertaining and social and while I'm sure I'll manage that, I'm wearing thin with the effort. How much nicer to have an old fashioned Sunday doing nothing. Oh to just sit down with a good book and a cool drink and enjoy life as if Monday was eons away. Maybe next week.

Springtime in Melbourne: cruising

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

Busy days these, don't seem to have much time for anything at the moment. Right now there's that kind of dizzying holiday feel, the sun shining, a festive vibe in the air and a lot to do before settling down to enjoy things.

What's to report? Melbourne Cup day was fine. Not so good on the punt, though I only had a couple of bets, but certainly enjoyed the amenities. Had a few laughs and ended the day in a Fed Square restaurant.

For what it's worth it's Oaks Day today or, as they call it these days, Ladies Day. I've had a few bets amongst doing everything else. I'm having another good day. Haven't bet heavily but am about $300 up and one win away from the quaddie. Fingers crossed.

I need to do well because I bought a new car today. I'm trading in my old A4 for a more recent - 2006 - model. Pretty much the same care but a bit swisher, and with the turbo a bit more responsive. My old car had good pick-up, but this one feels like a skittish horse on the starting line, dying to get going.

Otherwise made my usual rounds and have planted a few vegies and herbs out in the back garden. And I've started writing a zombie novel, for the fun of it.

At some point I should do some work.

*Yep, got the quaddie. Nice day at the office, um, not at the office.

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Slob Saturday

It's Saturday morning and I'm sitting at my desk in my tracky-dacks and a t-shirt trying to figure out when I'll enter into the world proper today. It's bright outside - it'll be warm again - and a bird coos. I have it all mapped out.

I have people coming over for a barbie tomorrow and should begin the preparation for that. I ordered some top line steaks from Hopkins River Beef - reputedly Australia's best - during the week. I have a hunk of sirloin I'll carve into steaks and marinade. And I have to do some shopping for all the other fixings. I'm well sorted for beer and wine.

I bought some vegie plants yesterday too - some tomatoes, capsicum, zucchini, plus a mix of herbs - which I have to transplant. That'll be fun, kinda. I'm sure Rigby will be poking his nose into that, helping.

The rest of the day is being slob outside of a party tonight. It's Derby Day today, some decent horses going around. I'll put a few bets on this morning, including a crack at the quaddie, and I'll watch through the day the TV brosadcast from the track. There'll be 120,000 people there, but I'll be perfectly happily to slop around in my shorts watching it from home.

Blind tasting

Image via Wikipedia

Thursday night was a lot of fun, but perhaps a little messy. Over the course of 5 hours I had about 12 glasses of wine and two cleansing ales. In between times delicious finger food prepared by the Seamstress cook was brought around on platters for our delectation. The venue was interesting - the suburban offices of Jeremy Oliver - and the crowd varied. I had fun.

The theory was that each of the 12 wines served on the night were matched to the food. There were a variety of wines, from Prosecco and sparkling Shiraz, to Riesling, Chardonnay, a brace of Pinot Noir's and the wine of the year - which we'll leave to later. Each of the wines were introduced by Jeremy Oliver, and were universally good. Really quite a treat for a wine lover.

In between times we mixed and mingled. There were a couple from my footy club I was surprised to see, Alec Epis, a great footballer in his day, recent board member and pretty good wine maker in his own right was one; the other the recently retired CHF of the team, Scott Lucas. I'd like to blame the prosecco, but I found myself uncharacteristically star-struck as I shook Scotty's hand. I've met him before, but I guess that's generally at times when I expected to. On Thursday I fear I may have acted like an awed kid searching for an autograph.

Mingled with a few others, including a antiques auctioneer I'm hoping to see, some attractive types, a few winemakers, and the various scions from good families, nice people all.

We left at about 1am I guess, but that was not before we'd each had a glass of the wine Jeremy Oliver awarded wine of the year status to. Perhaps it's no surprise it went to one of the great labels of Australian, if not the greatest: Grange Hermitage, this one the 2004 vintage.

It was lovely as you would expect of a wine that retails around the $600 mark. Speaking later to the winemakers they raved about it. And towards the end of the night when I asked Jeremy Oliver what was the best Australian wine he'd ever tasted he said the 1953 Grange - but this was next best and still had a lot of improvement in it.

I slept like a baby.