It rained, of course it did. It wouldn't be Melbourne if it didn't rain the day after we had our first 30 degree day since winter, now would it.
It was still warm. We still went out in shorts, of course we did. It was muggy warm. Everyone was out in the 30 degree day clothes, still, pretty much.
We ate lunch in Smith Street, in between rain showers, where the rain still fell in very fine sprinkles which felt nice falling on me, mostly under cover, if it felt anything at all, sort of relief from the muggy day.
There was a clutch of queens, with an ugly little dog, sitting behind us who were determined to be fabulous and loud. Oh! So! Loud! Er! go and be loud somewhere else, I thought. They were sitting in one of those stupid covid-era parkletts so, of course, I was hoping for a car loosing control and driving into them. Oh, not so bad that any of them would be injured, but just enough for them to collective shit the Gucci pants, so I could see it running down the backs of their legs and pooling in the leather loafers, requiring them to depart for parts some where other than there. But, you know, proving once again there is no god, that didn't happen.
Sam calls me Oscar the Grouch. Chuckle. That makes me laugh.
Afterwards, Sam shopped at the supermarket and I chatted to a friend about bulldogs. I told her how we'd applied to adopt an adult bulldog, which we didn't get by the way, apparently she had already found her 'forever home'.
Then we walked home in the finely spitting rain which was really quite nice.
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