And then life was slow, and the cargo ships passed the window; the heat came, and it went, and for a while I wore my mother's shoes. For two days I didn't leave the house, not out of emotion but the 45 degree weather. In that inferno the heat is indescribable. With every breath you take it fills you up, dries you out, makes you brittle and brown. The leaves fall dead, like autumn. All anyone can talk about is how tough it must be for the tennis players.
But these things wear off, and although the grass is yellow the sky is grey. Suddenly it's cardigan weather, and I go into the CBD (translation, I think: downtown) for shoes (not pictured), a wallet (not pictured), a salted caramel macaron (not pictured and long gone) and some friends (not pictured but rest assured they are lovely).
If I am a negative person then Chinatown must be a positive place. It's magnetic. I am drawn to it and, with it, a great thing about living in what really essentially ought to be an Asian country (Australasia is a thing, you know). (I don't know what though but we make trade agreements all the time.) What I'm trying to tell you is that I haven't had decent Asian food since… Stockholm. June. From a cafe that was run by Melburnians.
Let me try: one duck roll, one fried pork bun, two steamed pork buns, one shu mai, one prawn and chive dumpling, one prawn dumpling, no chicken feet and an egg custard tart. Tea. Sparkly water. Riesling that tasted like it had sugar stirred in.
In the end we were at the wrong arm of the Shark Fin Conglomerate: Shark Fin House instead of Shark Fin Inn. It's all good.
My palette turned to the north in the afternoon.
My first suhsi didn't go too badly, I don't think. What I mean is it wasn't pretty but I'm proud of it. I like washing the rice. It's soothing, seeing the water unmuddy.
(And just in case the glamour of my life was getting too overwhelming:)