Rainy Saturday

It's a rainy day, there is nothing else to do but pull a blanket over me on the couch and watch a movie.

I watched Klute, when Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland were young.

That's it. That is what I did. Nice too, I quite like days like that, as few and far between as they are.

It never stopped raining.

We did venture out in the early evening, on the brink of all the tourists descending on Smith Street turning it into its nasty, yob-central, Saturday night guise. We walked under the shop awnings to Aldi and bought all members of the household food. We scuttled back home, just as the rapidly-getting-drunk louts started yahooing, and the flocks of chicks started staggering in on the stratospheric heels and short skins cut up to their snatches.

The world dripped, every plant, tree, bush you brushed passed smeared you with moisture. The crazy paving was slippery, and we all had to be careful out in the back yard. The footpaths and roads were wet. Bruno insisted on taking a dump out in the elements and all I could do was stand by getting wet.