A Haunt (One of the Better Kind )

Chinese Kiwi brother and sister set-up—interesting for that alone. Light-on chat something in their favour; even with their regulars the young pair is shy and reticent, failing to rise to the bonhomie. The place trades on the strength of its location, the feng shui of the interior, simple good fare.

         Strongly Jewish quarter; film and TV people, mag-flippers (broadsheets marginally in the ascendant). Real estate/developers and other biz types, retirees and landlords with time on their hands, travel plans, discretionary spending; one or two conservative local painters whose pics appear in the Arts pages. Yarmulkes rare (one mid-aged hard-man almost certainly Mossad); in an unfortunate conjunction the recent South African wave prominent.
         Yellow steel road-sign punctured with incisions where freshly cut flowers and fronds protrude. (No “art-work” otherwise; nor Opp. Shop kitsch.) Through the spring a vase beside the coffee machine held budded tree branches cut short of the ceiling; smaller colour along the window bench over-stepping the Zen touch. Trying too hard was not the problem here: a confident designer following her instinct—the sister’s manner and clothing gave the indication.
         The loud venturesome Jewish waitress who on first encounter seemed a nuisance had become the chief ornament of the place, her warmth and ebullience contrasting with the others—the geologist’s daughter aside. (Far too many frustrated artists, actors & performers in this town sullenly waiting between times).
         Another positive was the low music, mostly retro lounge/jazz.

         Tables unsqueezed; re-cycled materials, second-hand furniture, wood-grains (albeit veneers).

         Without picking your hours getting a seat was problematic.
         The quest for a café where film and TV references were absent continues. If not movies, serials and reality shows, it’s bands and rock-stars, food, tourist destinations, renovations, property. Cosmetic surgery gets a run here, screenplay pitches, rankings of private schools, children’s career launches—overseas escapes and adventures above and beyond all else, the States especially popular for security reasons.

         Little sport, no politics or social issues, no sexual flirtation, no enquiry. Like everywhere else the minutiae over egg poaching, bacon crisp, sourdough/rye/wholemeal and coffee.
         Re-filling of water a nice courtesy (were it delivered with good grace). Disrepair in the upper storey facades across the road adds chic; some days from the outer bench seat a corner of sky seemed attached to the place like a kite. Consoling trams and shopping trolleys. Horse-headed workingmen one side and numbers of precocious kids the other.

         Nebbish fashions common on the street were welcome (half the time even the monied matrons eschewed flaunting); the elderly regulars, the aged sometimes and even the seriously ill, pale, bruised carefully pushing walking frames settled all spirits.
         Café $3.5; top main $16.
         6 - 6 ½ /10. 3 ½ stars. The Café of the imagination is not to be found in this town.

Island (Lewis)

Tipping just under 82kg. on the discounted Aldi electronic machine, the girl was still unwilling to concede. Biggest Loser, done and dusted; there could be no quibble. Biscuits, muffins and crisps were to blame.

         It was somewhat irrelevant with the news now that the return home for a holiday was off. Yuan’s father had made the decision.

         There was too much disappointment to talk during breakfast.

         Had a return eventuated YuB’s mother and aunts would most certainly have busied themselves lining up the marriage prospects; after all the girl would shortly turn twenty-four. A shaplier figure would have been useful for the campaign.

         The two new housemates had brightened us up. Scotch-English, with the leaning to the former.

         Em had lived on Neil’s Outer Hebridean island of Lewis almost ten years. In her mid-teens her mother had suddenly announced one day to Emily and her siblings that they were off to an island in the Atlantic. A dash of wild romanticism and a number of settlement incentives had prompted the move from Milton Keynes.

         Neil was born on Lewis and apart from a term in Glasgow, had lived there all his life.

         “Black” houses, peat fuel for heating through winter (cut from their allotment of turf each year). A croft for their sheep and the Atlantic with its herring and cod pounding on the other side of the island four hour’s walk away.

         Neil’s grandfather had been a Norwegian—Norway was closer than London.

         A knock-out. Johnson and Boswell’s trip to the Western Isles of Scotland had been got down from the shelf for Neil. (Unfortunately, the two adventurers had only made it as far as Skye.)

         Em has enthusiastically claimed the island and Neil’s family history at the same time. 

         Even though she had wanted to visit Australia from girlhood—and the Ramsay Street  Neighbours place—shortly before departure Emily had wondered why she was leaving. So much did she love the island.

         The great fortune of loving one’s home shone brightly in Em. Emanated.

         Three or four generations ago the island had been owned by Lord Leverhulme (Lever & Kitchen &etc.), who built the manor house and the extensive estate. The fortune had been earned in the opium trade with the Chinese. One of the descendants subsequently bequeathed the island to the nation, manor house and all.

         Since the arrivals from the far north YuB. has encountered new struggles with the English language.

         Sitting around the big Times Atlas on the living-room floor the other night, some interpretation was needed—details on the English marauder among the rest. No hard feelings nearly 200 years later on Yuan’s side. (A local Fuzhou resistance fighter, Lin Zexu, gained fame in YuB.’s hometown by his heroics against the foreign devils and their iniquitous trade.)

         Em has told of birders up in the cliffs of the north climbing each spring for the nesting gugas, a local delicacy. The people in the settlements near the cliffs had long big toes, Emily had observed; and the toes all prehensily curved and curled. 

         Em loved to walk, loved the wind, winter and autumn. Em was curious, inquisitive, interested in the elderly and their tales. The profile of a kind of old retiree, she mocked herself.

         It would be interesting to see what Emily finds in the still, orange-tinged season ahead, the salmon and violet dawns and dusks, the leaf fall and fruits—prime time in this town.

         Neil liked the galleries here, the cafes, cinemas and the other entertainment. His girl’s enthusiasm for the harsh island on which he was born Neil countered with the dreariness and limitation that was part of the bargain.

Kate Middleton

Strapless evening gown modelled on chrysanthemum petals for the bodice—or some other flower. Tone of parchment; faintest orange perhaps. (Early-mid season. It was not orange blossom: the tree in the backyard provided good reference.) Collins Street certainly the location for such a vision, even if down the hill a bit from the Paris end. (What used to be the Paris end.) Mid afternoon. Not unexpected really, despite the hole George’s had left in the street. Glory of a girl. Glorious to behold in the dress certainly. A young Prince’s heart was supposed to hold out against something like that? Not likely. (Fashion working a treat as nothing else. Design. The whole town runs on it. Our valuable mining.) An image to remain in the mind long into deepest night. TAFTS - The Pen People, on the Arcade corner. Mont Blanc and related stationery. For elite pen-pushers—cheques, contracts, deeds of arrangement. Would be something to draw the girl from behind the counter somehow, on the pretext of seeing the gleaming nibs in the display cabinets. See her swan the bottom half of the fabric across the floor tiles. Worth a try next time with a dinner jacket and hankie in the lapel pocket, breezing in the door. Was her hair up?... Daughter of the pen and quill baron formerly of some luscious estate back in the old dart. A coup and a half that’d be... Check her out sometime. One fine day she’s bound to reappear.

NB. The Age today carried the story and accompanying photograph of the dress Kate Middleton wore that turned young Will’s mind from platonic to supersonic.

Fluro

Some of the hard-working folk crossing the footbridge going to and from the towers, plodding back home at the end of the day, might resent the beggars. Couldn’t they clean toilets or polish shoes along the riverbank, rather than just sitting there with their hand out? 

         There were people who thought like that; politicians who more or less said it in unguarded moments. 

         You couldn’t blame them, chained to their desks checking numbers, ticking boxes, filing their papers, doodling and gazing out the windows over tree-tops. In the offices the bosses kept an eagle eye out watching for the flip of the screen, timing lunches and even toilet breaks. These people had it hard too. They put in the hours and earned their money.

         The regular lumpy chap at the head of the footbridge over the river looks like he’d piss-up their coins first chance he got. Just had that look about him; it might not have been the case at all. Wouldn’t make hearts go Bomp-de-bomp that particular fellow. Some of the others had a much better chance. Beggary was a kind of beauty contest too.

         It’s gotta be done right there at that spot. You couldn’t hope to reach that office crowd just sitting on your bum with your hand out. That wouldn’t get you very far. 

         This lumpy chap had done his thinking, nutted out the situation.  

         JOB ACCOMMODATION FOOD read his sign on the cardboard he had standing up for the passersby.

         That was unique in itself. No other beggar you saw in the city presented like that.

         Only after these openers here was the coin hinted, and that indirectly too.

         Or ANY HELP YOU CAN GIVE.

         Block letters beside the rubbish bin at the head of the multi award-winning footbridge snaking across the river, where there was a little café underneath right on the water and the rowing boats cruising by. 

         Bowed so low you think he’d taken a turn this thick-set man with nothing to recommend him, eminently forgettable ordinary Joe. 

         Where does one ever see heads bowed nowadays? And so low?... In Asia you saw it perhaps. It was very odd in our town.

         The coin going onto this man’s mat doesn’t raise his head too far either, just enough to voice his thanks. 

         Extra well-judged was fluro polo work clobber too. Ready to spring up on the spot for anything you might have for him this chap, then and there. This man was no layabout, rest assured. Try him.

         The fluro had only been added in the last few days. 

         Good luck to you Cob.