(I'm using an extract from my journal, as it is easier than thinking up anything new)
Midday. We walk the dogs to Abbotsford for the weekly shop. The sun is shining, it’s really quite a nice afternoon. The sky is blue with white clouds. The wind blows.
The sun is shining in as we navigate the back streets of Collingwood. That café that sold the best blackberry muffins in the world that closed but reopened recently on the corner is in full swing. It’s full of people.
A guy in tan pants, with a big, beefy butt, runs past us in front of the Porsche showroom. (I have to admit, I thought I’d like to see him in his undies, as he disappeared off in the distance)
Cnr Hoddle Street & Victoria Parade. The cars heading into the lefthand turn lane don’t put their indicators on, causing us to, perhaps miss the opportunity to cross that lane, and miss the lights to cross over Hoddle Street, which take an age to come around again as it is such a big intersection.
“None of these cunts are indicating,” I hear myself say to Sam. There is an older couple standing at the side of Victoria Parade with us. I wonder if my coarse langue offended them?
Then I wonder, Are there any swear words left anymore?
Standing on the island median, as all the cars rush by on Hoddle Street, I think about the news articles I read this morning. Tony Abbott’s objection to standing in front of the aboriginal flag and supporting the voice to parliament. What do you call that? What do you call that? Really? I ask you? Racism right out in full sight? What else would you call it?
I stop at The Salvos to look at the CDs. Sam continues on with the dogs. I have to be quick, as Sam only barely puts up with me going to The Salvos when we are on a dedicated shopping mission.
I get a Michael Bublé Xmas EP. For $1 I couldn’t resist. It’s not something I’d usually get, but Michael Bublé is, seemingly, such a great guy. And it still amuses me that he is ever so slightly miffed that his highest selling album is his Xmas album, which I bought for a $1 sometime after I heard him harrumph ever so slightly about its success.
I run all the way down Victoria Street so Sam doesn’t have to wait for me any longer than he has to
A short time later. I’m standing at the entrance to the hive with Brun and Otto while Sam shops.
A Woolies guy stops and pats the Bulldogs. He says he has French bulldogs at home.
10 minutes later. Sam reappears, drops off a full shopping bag, and then heads back into the centre with an empty bag.
I’ve got the sniffles. Is it the wind? I wonder.
There’s a cute 20 year old blonde lad standing just inside the centre opposite Aldi, in a puffer jacket and black shorts, I see, as I stare off into the distance, in which he just happens to be. I can’t help but notice, his hands seem to be, intermittently, playing with himself in the pockets of his shorts, quite frankly, most of the time. It isn’t and altogether bad look.
Maybe, he sees me looking at him? Maybe he has that expression of a guy who wants to be seen? Maybe he starts playing with himself even more? Maybe he starts gazing in my direction? Maybe it is all in my imagination. I’m just staring off into space passing the time waiting for Sam to be done shopping.
5 minutes later. Sam appears with dog meat. He grabs another empty reusable shopping bag and heads back into the centre.
5 minutes after that, the cute blonde guy in the black shorts and the black puffer jacket leaves with his father, when his father appears with the shopping, I presume, from Aldi. He gets that ‘I’m not looking at you looking at you’ expression as he walks past? Or maybe the whole thing is just in my head? It doesn’t really matter either way. It’s the thought that counts, after all.
Sam reappears at 1:15pm.
A minute later. We’re at mens fat, oh my dictation is a killer, Minh Phat supermarket.
I dictate all of this into my phone, like a secret agent, to pass the time while I am standing around waiting for Sam. I get a lot of my journal written that way, but I do have to go back over it and check it, the dictation function isn't always so accurate.
The sun shines. The breeze blows. People walk past, the prominent apparel is coats, or big woolly jumpers. Puffer jackets are making a good show of it too. The wind is kind of cold despite the sun shining down beautifully. An old man drops a cigarette but on the footpath. A girl stands with the shopping, checking her phone, as if she’s looking for a message from someone who’s possibly picking her up. There are lots of chunky boys in shorts and jackets. There’s a good number of boys in hoodies and jeans. A taxi toots and a couple indicate they’re the taxis passengers and they cross the road over to the taxi, which is blocking the road ware it has stopped in the middle of traffic. There are plenty of Teslas driving past. The sun is nice on my back, despite the wind. An old lady walks past with a walking stick, she looks like she’s struggling to make her way. A cute couple crossover Nicholson Street smiling at the Bulldogs as they enter men’s fats, oh my dictation is a scream, Minh Phat. But then I wonder how long ago it was that the cute blonde girl, of the couple, got her scruffy, but cute man’s fat? (It's the dictation, it's not me) The bulldogs lie at my feet.
Sam reappears at 1:24pm.
1:27pm. We’re at the Butcher in Victoria Street. The wind is now blowing strongly, if you could get out of it, son would be lovely.... er any son would be lovely... sun would be lovely. That’s out of the wind, not off your face, you understand.
1:30pm. Boys Walk past in black and grey. It seems to be the colour scheme of the day.
I can see Sam laughing with the butcher through the shop window.
1:32pm. Sam reappears.
The guy in the wheelchair, missing a leg with a gangrenous stump, which looks bandaged and cared for, as opposed to the exposed fly blown mess I have seen on past occasions, is halfway down Victoria Street. He looks like hs is finally being looked after by someone. Brun stops and sniffs at his leg, which leaves me wondering if Brun can smell the festering flesh there. I pull Brun along, but wheelchair guy catches on and asks me for change. I’ve been abused by him more than once, so I pull on Brun’s lead and hurry away.
1:36pm. We’re at the pork roll shop. It’s nice standing in the sun, despite the wind blowing strong.
Moments later. Oh good! I think. A socially challenged chick, missing most of her teeth arrives, in a dressing gown wailing and mock crying. She sits down next to us with a begging hat. After a moment of calm, she starts to cry again.
It doesn’t take her long, to ask me if I have change.
“No, I don’t,” I say.
She starts to wail and cry again. She cries out, to no one in particular, “What are you looking at, do you always look at me like I’m a fucking monkey?”
The owner of the pork roll shop appears at the door and tells her to move on. “Get out!” he says. She departs wailing to the world, the stumps of all her black teeth visible in her gums.
Sam appears quicker than normal with our pork rolls.
We walk up Victoria Street, with Brun being his difficult self. I have little patience for his nonsense with bags of shopping over both shoulders and beginning to feel the hunger of the late hour of the day.
Two of the socially challenged, walk up the other side of Victoria Street with the type of dog they always seem to go for, a brindle pitbull type. They walk opposite to us all the way to Hoddle Street. I can hear the nasally whine of one of the less than fortunate all the way. It always worries me that the less than, oh, shall we say, smart have these powerful dogs which, I may be wrong, but am pretty sure they don't train, when they are anywhere near my dogs.
Way past lunch time, we’re home. I’m starving.
We ate pork rolls and rice paper rolls.
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