Iced Coffee

We ought to have entered this ourselves, said the Velodrone. Why on earth didn't we?

Forgot it was on, said Le Bon David gloomily. Until it was too late.

Look, there's Jean-Jacques Rousseau over there with Jean Paul Sartre. They must have remembered.

Yes, said Le Bon David. Team Existentialist! What a joke! They'll never be able to agree on anything. Look at them arguing already over their breakfast. Let's sneak over and see if we can hear what they're saying.

The VeloDrone and Le Bon David sidle over to the cafe table where Rousseau and Sartre are deep in discussion under a colourful umbrella. They sit down at the next table with their backs towards Team Existentialist, and their ears open.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau: What's this you've got me! Farmers Union Iced Coffee? I can't drink this!

Jean Paul Sartre: Yes you can. It's a South Australian icon. All the locals drink it. If we're seen drinking it, who knows, we might get a sponsorship deal.

Jean-Jacques: Sacre Bleu! It tastes like a drink for a baby! And why aren't you drinking it yourself?

Jean Paul Sartre: It gives me bad gas. But at least I have it on the table in front of me. I'm sticking to water today.

Jean Jacques: Perhaps I should too. Eh bien! At least the weather here is agreeable. Who else is here by the way?

Jean Paul Sartre: Oh, Lance Armstrong with his new team, and Cadel Evans with his. Everyone has a new team. New bikes, new shoes, new sunnies, new jerseys, everything. What an event this is going to be!

Jean Jacques: Yes.....but wait a minute. New bikes, new shoes, new sunnies, new jerseys? How come we don't have those?

Jean Paul Sartre: Drink up your Farmers Union Iced Coffee, my friend, and then we shall see!

Jean-Jacques: Burrrp!

At the Interface

Another hot day. We went to Semaphore. We thought we might go in the water, and wore our swimming things just in case.

The sand was hot. We took off our shoes. How then had we known that the sand was hot? They were not proper shoes.

The sea was tepid and green. Fat people bobbed in the shallows. Three ladies and a man in a stockman's hat. Nine seagulls flew southwards over their heads. Eleven terns flew north. Perhaps I have remembered this wrong.

The terns looked like seagulls wearing unconvincing black hairpieces. Thirty nine of them stood on the shore. Something was afoot.

We walked towards the Semaphore jetty, in the water up to our knees. The middle of the jetty was missing. This was new. Boys were jumping off at the gap, and clambering up the other side. We could see them, in the distance.

Two yachts, on the near horizon, with cream and grey sails like moths' wings, seemed to touch one another lightly.

I looked down at the water and was shocked to see lines of Japanese calligraphy. It was seaweed, tiny brown and black pieces like brushstrokes, floating on the surface of the water. They said, if I read them correctly: Here is the interface, here, and here, and here.

We took the plunge. Immersed ourselves in the sea. It was cold, because our skin was hot. We gasped. And wallowed. Only the interface matters.

I flapped my hands under the water which moved like jelly.

At Their Feet

Pliny and her mum went to a Lunch Hour Concert yesterday. They had spent so long having lunch that the only place they could get two seats together was on the front row. The front row is good for some things though. You get a direct and close up view of the performers' legs and feet.

The Adelaide Chamber Legs and Feet played two beautiful and seasonally appropriate pieces, the first being the Serenade for Strings by Elgar and the second being the Serenade for Strings by Tchaikovsky. Legs and Feet, understandably, like to have two of everything.

Elgar's Serenade was about a river. The Legs and Feet dipped their toes in and played. All in all there were thirty four Legs, and thirty four Feet. The Feet were a variety of ladies' and gentlemen's Feet. The ladies' Feet were clad in flat black shoes, flat glittery shoes, or high heeled gold strappy sandals. Between the sole of the sandal and the big toe of the right Foot of the first violin, a tiny hair floated, lyrically. The gentlemen's Feet sustained heavy black shoes of varying degrees of pointedness. All the feet swayed serenely as Elgar's river flowed to its lilting conclusion.

Tchaikovsky's Serenade was a slow introduction to trousers. What infinite variety is to be found in human trousers! Even when they are all of necessity black. There were rhythmic and energetic trousers of every possible length, up to and including the length at which they may no longer be called trousers, but lightly skipping Capri pants. At the other end of the scale were trousers that were so long and muted that the shoes were hardly visible. During the Serenade, the tiny hair which had been under the toe of the first violin, disappeared and reappeared on the trousers of the second violin, in a wistful mood.

I have not yet mentioned the skirts, at least one of which was very Russian in character. With skirts, in the spring, come visible Legs. These were very white and exhibited a great purity of tone.

When it was over the Legs and Feet got a standing ovation from a man in a red jumper, and a decent clap from Pliny and her mum. It was good sitting on the front row, said Pliny's mum. I loved seeing the face of the cellist, it was so expressive.

Face? wondered Pliny.