I am listening to the re-released Goats Head Soup album. I like it, but then I don’t think the Rolling Stones have ever released a dud album.
10.20am. Walking in the sun the day is warm and quite nice, balmy, but sunny. The sun is warm, but the breeze is cool.
10.30am. I had to take my hoodie off, I was getting a sweat up. I should have worn shorts instead of track pants, it is so hard to tell what to wear as spring takes effect.
There is just a bunch of oldies walking in the gardens this morning, of which I don’t consider myself, but it is all relative, I guess. Ask a twenty year old what they think and I am sure the answer would be different.
10.35am. My ring closed and I didn’t feel a thing. (did you see what I did there?) It is an Apple watch thing, I’m still not completely sure what it means, or if it is even a good thing.
10.40am. Two hot boys in shorts with really great legs, and good shorts, you know, masculine and fitting, jogged up and passed. One boy’s eyes connected with mine as he jogged passed. I can’t help but turn around to gaze at his arse, something I never normally do. My motto, you can look all you like, but never turn your head to look some more.
The usual guy walking the white staffy walks towards me over by the driveway into Rathdowne Street. It is interesting how you get the regulars.
The grass was green, the sun shone, it was a lovely day, as I walked around the sweeping bend near Victoria Parade.
Then a boy jogged by in tiny black shorts barely keeping him nice, and a black singlet, with his pale white skin passing me as I crossed the plaza in front of the museum off Nicholson Street.
Then every mother’s handsome dream son sprinted towards me at the driveway to the museum. Strapping. Muscular. Handsome. Athletic.
A girl with a plucky Jack Russell by the tennis courts pulling forward on his lead, walks towards me, he was quite a handsome little devil.
There was a man with a black French playing in the middle of the brilliant green lawn
A beefy guy all dressed in black with a Westie (small white dog with pointy ears on a lead) walking towards the Carlton and Nicholson Street cnr. You know they say dogs look like their owners, well, he, they didn’t. I wondered if he was walking his girlfriend’s dog?
There was a guy with a Chow walking towards the Carlton Street driveway. And a girl with a black and white Papillon, also walking towards the Carlton Street driveway, her Papillon getting yappy towards the Chow.
There was a woman with a Beagle, young with great colours. Beagles often fade as they get older. Don't we all, I think.
The middle aged guy with the grey hair who is a regular walking in the park in the morningswas in the park walking this morning. We don’t acknowledge each other. I should remember to give him a smile next time. Although, with a mask on, he probably wouldn’t notice, hey?
If I don’t stop writing this shit I will never get any exercise done, I think. I look up and see every mother's dream son sprinting down the hill towards me. I get photos of him as he is running down the hill towards me, (None of them turn out to be great) pretending to take shots of the trees.
A girl with a big, white feisty Groodle, which she lets off the lead and it chases a ball enthusiastically, walks in from Carlton Street.
A girl with a black greyhound saunters along.
 |
| I see those two guys on the park bench like modern art, posed just so |
Two boof joggers sit on the park bench together by the Carlton Street driveway. One with “Super Brock” emblazoned across the back of his sweat shirt, and the other with a buzz cut. They sit next to each other not speaking like a gay couple who have been together for too many years.
I take an extended break at 3.42 ks to write notes into my phone. To photograph every mother's dream son and the two boof joggers, so much so that my watch trip-o-metre thing goes into automatic pause. Rude, I think. So, I soon get going up the hill and around the caretakers red brick cottage.
There are two women with toddlers and prams meandering along the path heading out to the Rathdowne Carlton Street cnr.
Another regular, the girl with the collie comes walking towards me, as I turn the corner to head up the Rathdowne Street straight.
There is black guy with his small son both in masks looking adorable sitting on a park bench together.
There is girl jogging in the huge pink mask that makes her look a bit like an alien, with the golden lab comes running at me as I approach the rubiks cube.
Every mother’s handsome son sprints by at the other museum plaza on Rathdowne Street, red faced and glistening with sweat, shiny and wet.
Only one of the two regular cute Asian boys jogging with their dog runs passed, I wonder if he has split up from his boyfriend? Two boys together are always boyfriends to me.
The regular blond jogger, I call (young) David McCallum, jogs by.
The sun is out, as are the hot boys now. The blue skies make them slide their arses into shorts and propel themselves out their front doors.
There is a fat girl talking into her phone coming up from the Victoria and Rathdowne cnr, I imagine she is pretending to exercise, but really she is just dawdling along yapping into her phone.
Star Fucker plays
The cute Asian boy and his dog, pass me for a second time, just as I am coming up to Gertrude Street.
There is a gaggle of toddlers and prams and parents under the Oak tree. Isn’t there a song about that?
There is a woman planting plants on the fence line of the last Royal Terrace terrace house. I think, as I walk passed, the bulldogs will have a great time snuffling in them when we come for a walk this afternoon.
Guys with beards and masks look weird, they look like unshaved bikini lines.
11.25am. I’m home again. I have a shit and a shower.
We have Sam’s fancy instant noodles for lunch.
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