Today is a beautiful day in Brisbane. I’m sitting on my deck at the moment listening to cicadas singing horribly out of tune but with a great deal of passion. It’s like being at a Whitney Houston concert, but no one is getting angry and demanding their money back. My cat is lying on the table occasionally lazily opening one eye to see if I have recalled my manners and remembered the rule about patting and/or feeding her whenever she places herself in reach. I have, I’m just playing hard to get. In a minute, she’ll get up and rub her whiskers all over the corner of my Macbook and I’ll tell her not to. She’ll do it anyway, I’ll end up patting her and our dance will be complete for the morning.
Somewhere in the city a car driver is cursing a cyclist, and two streets over, some poor sap on a bike is nearly getting cleaned up by a mother of two texting her husband to berate him for forgetting to put the milk away after his breakfast again. Elsewhere, a runner is looking out over the Brisbane river as he paces out another 10 kms before work and remembering what this river looked like when it rose up out of its quiet swirling and tried to take back the city. He doesn’t think of it for long though because a good song kicks in on his ipod and in his head he’s back in Melbourne when he last heard it at that bar in Carlton. He must remember to tell his sister about. She’d love it. The bar, not the song.
In a government building in the city, a decision is made. No one gets too excited about it, because it will have to made again at the next meeting with the people from the higher pay grade, typed up by someone who earns half as much right now but dreams of the day she finishes her degree and becomes all their bosses. She’ll take the new brief upstairs, watch them debate it, change it, send it further upstairs, talk it over again and return to the first decision they made at the lower pay grade. She doesn’t mind doing all this. If decisions were made quickly, something would actually have to be done about them.
In suburbia, two little kids scheme over how to get mum to take them to the park. The younger one, the little sister, thinks asking prettily while wearing her new dress that makes the swishy sound will get the job done. Her older brother thinks about it more laterally and decides explaining to mum that they will make less mess at the park, that they will tire themselves out by afternoon and that she can read her book at the park will win mum over. He’s right. She agrees to the visit and smiles to herself as she packs their bag of snacks, first aid and toys for the park. She admires his cunning and thinks about telling their grandma about it when they talk later. It’ll remind her of grandpa and they all miss his sly sweetness.
A face appearing from behind my screen yawns a message. Melora is hungry. Better go.