I had ‘one of those days’ last week.
Mark had a seminar on in Sydney, in the city, and we had to pick a pram up (eek!) from Narrabeen (again, eek!) so we decided to make a day of it, and stay at the sister’s house o’night.
We had hoped for an early start but, as usual, it wasn’t to be. Partly because of my stop-starts: me standing still suddenly, and muttering "I will not vomit" over and over. But we did get on our way, and I did manage a snooze as well.
We parked in the first parking block we came to, which was of course hideously $$$, and wandered down Martin Place, pausing to admire the bubbles in the fountain. Mark was starving, I was starving, and the only place we could find was a little slow on the service, so Mark was running late. While he was in his seminar, I decided to do some crafty shopping. I searched everywhere for Kinokuniya, the wonderfully enormous bookshop at which my sister bought me knitting porn for Christmas. Unfortunately the knitting porn (a hardcover called Alterknits) was missing 15 pages so I had to return. But, alas, Kinokuniya was not to be found and sister was not answering her phone!
So I went to my next stop, Tapestry Craft, in search of stash-worthy yarns. I got two balls of beautiful blue kid mohair, so soft and snuggly, and some expensive kiddy yarn, 100% merino I think, in a pale olive green. The sales assistant asked if she could help. Nope, I’m just feeling up your wool, I replied. She said well, the old ladies who come in call what you’re doing SEX. A Stash-Expanding-Xpedition. I like it. So I engaged in SEX and also got a hand drawn map to Kinokuniya – I’d been across the road from it at the entrance to the QVB but hadn’t looked up in the rain. I trotted off to find it, then had to do an about turn because I realised I’d left the book in question on the countertop at TC.
They were very helpful at Kino – I was expecting some hassle since I had no receipt for proof of purchase, but it had a price sticker on the back so I guess that was enough. 2 minutes saw me with a brand spanking new book in hand, and directions to the craft wall so I could check out bookbinding guides. I now have two weaknesses: knitting porn and bookbinding porn. :blush:
Then on to Eckerslys! I spent enough to bump me over my $500, free $50 voucher limit, but didn’t have enough hands to carry $50 more worth of things. I’ll probably use it on Wednesday when I can browse the Newcastle store at my leisure, with my car parked right out the front.
By the end of Eck’s I was really tired. Because I’ve been nauseous a lot and tired and lethargic for the last couple of months, and essentially inactive, my fitness levels are low to non-existent, so I was in a tired enough state that I was doing dolly steps down the street and my mind was really drifting. Between that and balancing the really heavy bags of goodies, I’m surprised I didn’t degenerate into hallucinations.
I knew a headache was coming on, but suddenly the whole world changed.
Through the drizzle, and the lunch time crowds of pen pushers and key tappers on York St, the rich notes of a busking saxophonist floated up from the next block. Actually they didn’t float up; bouncing off the office blocks, they seemed to come from above and beside and below and behind, all at once. I stopped in the middle of the flow of human bodies to listen; I couldn’t;t see the busker from where I was. I was briefly tempted to go look, but I decided that would ruin the experience. Suddenly I wasn’t tired, I was just slow. Slowly wandering across roads, down the footpath, to Martin Place. Three kids, maybe about 12 years old, were playing in the abovementioned bubbles in the fountain. More like foam than bubbles, huge chunks were getting caught in the breeze and were drifting across George Street and landing in the flowers. The dull grey of rain-slick tiles was broken by two flower stalls, selling ginger flowers and waratahs and fluffy pink eucalyptus flowers and bright red gerberas.
People wandering past reacted in different ways: the first being office workers returning for lunch who studiously ignored the frivolity at the fountain. One woman in stilettos trod in a clump and desperately shook her leg to get rid of it. Some frowned at the children; how dare they take delight in the anarchy of a detergent-spiked fountain. Several mothers and children walked past. One girl, about four, was dragging her mother along and pointing up, "Look, look, can’t you see it? There!" at a small cloud of foam in the air. Across the street, another stopped to plunge her hands into a particularly large drift. Her well-presented mother called crossly for her to stop. Everyone was involved in some way, and I took delight in the whole scene.
The tiles were wet from the rain, but wherever foam landed the water was dispersed, so each foam island had a dry beach around it. One puddle sported a turtleback of foam, scudding across in front of the light breeze, in the peculiar motion of a slaterbug with millions of tiny legs you can’t see, giving the impression of a hovercraft.
Then an about turn for me and back up to the cafe – I’d gotten so lost in my people watching that I turned the wrong way down George St. I sat with another latte and friand to read my bookbinding porn and wait for Mark.
The rest of the day involved nausea-halting organic cucumbers and a trip to Narrabeen; the day after, a trip to Reverse Garbage to buy leather/suede offcuts and to Aerialise to watch my niece at her circus training week. When the baby’s born and old enough to be minded, I plan to run away to join the circus school. Well, maybe for a week.
