It has been warm and pleasant today - more than warm; positively hot. Just the kind of day for a 3 or 4 kilometres push through the undulating back-streets of Summer Hill. There's an appropriate name for a suburb, if ever I read one.
We made our way by taxi this morning to Hoskins Park in Dulwich Hill (via Hensons Park in Marrickville). Only when it became clear we were not in the vicinity of the correct destination did we learn that the venue for the farewell brunch for Kelly, David and their son Jara had moved north west by one suburb. Hoskins rather than Hensons; Park is the same word wherever it is; Dulwich Hill is a subdivision of Marrickville, so I guess that technically speaking we weren't wrong there either. It's not important. Worse things happen at sea.
We joined a group of mostly thirty-something parents with a varied selection of children - mostly boys, as it happens - between the ages of two and four. Spike asked, jokingly, if we were the only couple not to have brought offspring. Yep. At least Spike fits the demographic. I could be a parent of the demographic; grandparent to its next generation. Who cares? Correct - no one.
Suriya Lee was there with his twin sons, Akira and Oscar. Lousie (their mother) arrived not long after. It turns out that Kelly, David and Jara (with whom Spike shared a house in Croydon Park for a year) are camping out in Suriya and Louise's house until they drive north to Bellingen on Tuesday to start the next phase of their lives together. They're lovely people on the edge of an adventure. Let's hope it works well for them. It should.
I've not seen or spoken to Suriya since his departure from our office in March. He seems well, content with life and enjoying the surprises and satisfactions that come with his new set of circumstances. That's good news. We spoke briefly about my own less than perfect time at work over the last six months. I observed that I do not give a shit about the pantomime horse behaviour of others. I truly, truly don't. They are not worth the effort of worrying about what mad scheme they might come up with next.
Spike's contribution to brunch was a berry compote with ricotta cheese and organic honey. As Spike prepared the treat she noted that the honey came from a producer that turns out both organic and non-organic varieties. How, asked Spike, does the bee-keeper know their organic bees have not been nipping over to some non-organic bush to gorge themselves on chemically enhanced nectar? I have no idea. It's one of life's mysteries. Maybe they have a very skilled team of bee herders who ride bare-back dragonflies to keep the hives apart. Maybe the bees are given an organic farmers manual on identifying phosphates as part of their induction. Maybe they're just really, really clever fucking bees who sit at home doing crossword puzzles and sudoku squares between shifts. Whatever, Spike's berries, cheese and honey went down very well with all.
We pushed home. It was probably the best option; the right idea. But on the exposed parts of the route between Dulwich Hill and Ashfield it was, as I said at the beginning, hot. See ... I'm beginning to repeat myself. That's how hot it was / is. I'm becoming incoherent.
"Sprinter" by the way. I read an article on yesterday's Independent web site. Dr Tim Entwisle, who is the Executive Director of the Sydney Botanic Gardens, says the idea we break down the southern hemisphere year into four seasons based on northern hemisphere climate patterns and ecology makes very little sense. He reckons we need 6 season descriptors for Sydney (apparently the Jawoyn people of the NT have six that correspond to what the weather is actually doing in their neck of the woods). Makes sense to me.
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