tales from an ordinary world

2002-05-18

Outside City Cafe, all the tables are empty - the first sign of a wintry day - but with three layers of clothes on (a near-alien concept to me), I feel I can survive. After unsuccessfully trying to eat my bagel with one hand, I put down my book and concentrate on food. From out of nowhere, a wolf-whistle shoots across the street - I can't determine the originator nor the recipient, but a few metres away, a girl waiting for the bus can't help smiling to herself for a minute or two.

A little later, I make my regular pilgrimage to Raoul Records, where once again the guy behind the counter looks at what I'm buying (in this case, the new Elvis Costello CD), and says "yeah, that one's great." Hearing a Mission of Burma song start playing in the shop makes me feel oddly nostalgic, and as I walk out, the music wafting out to the street, I wonder if it means anything to the other passers-by - just like when I was in Collectors Corner, and a song by Smog called ex-con that I really love was bouncing out and down Swanston St, with its cut-short trumpet blips and happy-go-lucky sound, while Bill C sings "whenever I get dressed up / I feel like an ex-con trying to make good". But nobody else seemed to notice, and I almost felt like I was just hallucinating.

In Chapel St I make my way in and out of the shops, amongst swarms of fellow fashion victims. I'd like some pointy shoes. I'd like a new jacket to replace this six-year-old thing that's showing signs of discontent. It's hard work, but thankfully I don't feel gripped by the need to actually purchase anything. It can wait. I still don't know about my new, clothes-buying self, the self I've become in the last couple of years. I still feel silly about it, really.

Jeffrey Smart prints in a shop window. I go inside and stare at The Cahill Expressway for a while, because it's the work of his I know best (although I didn't know the man in it was Clive James, until this evening), and the ones in the window had made me think of it immediately.

Tonight, like last Saturday night, I cooked. There's nothing particularly noteworthy nor interesting about cooking flat rice noodles with a few vegetables, but I feel better for having made the effort.

Tomorrow, I'll go see a band in the evening, presumably still smelling of the sunday roast lunch I'll have had with the parents. Nothing hangs around quite like the smell of a roast. I wish I knew why.