A state of mind

Just before the brow of the hill, where Walker Lane angles into Mary Street, I leapt over the seeping gutter, correcting my balance with the metal upright of the street sign. Looking up, my eyes saw France.

France is the state of mind you have when you have lost your mind to a whimsy. I suppose there is a this-goes-with-that quality at play. The getting of whimsy is subjective, to each his own. But what could be more conducive to a French vision than white lace, lavender, and oranges? Out of sight here, too, is a scarlet motor scooter with chrome trim.

Momentarily, my reason for being is to indulge myself with all things gallic. I have visions of my father leaning over a naked engine, taking each spark plug out of its socket and cleaning it, before returning it to spark anew. I reason that my plugs need to be cleaned and put in more jauntily, with beret would do it. So, I leaven them with Edmund White’s ‘The Flaneur – A stroll through the paradoxes of Paris’. I scatter my apartment with images from Cartier-Bresson. I stroll my courtyard, crushing lavender, inspecting olives, chuffing over newly sprouting fig twigs. I am cleansing the plugs of my senses.

In readiness ...




A member of the Theme Thursday community. A post in response to the prompt 'reason'.

Equally red

In urban myth, red hair is linked with freckles and pale skin, with determination and a fiery temper. Red-heads are teased with nick-names like ‘carrot top’ and ‘blue’. The vogue nick-name is ‘ranga’. This could be influenced by ‘South Park’, but it could also be derived from ‘orangutang’, an animal with a fiery coat.


Last Saturday, Australia had a federal election. The two major parties are tied on 71 seats, needing 76 to obtain a majority and form a government with the ‘confidence’ of the House. One seat has still not been determined. Seven seats have been won by independent candidates who belong to neither of the major parties. Our politicians are currently all out the back of the weather-shed having a fisticuff to see who wins the trough to stick their snout into!

The ranga is our care-taker Prime Minister, Julia Gillard. She has committed a few blues during her term and is luring the independents with carrots.



A member of the Theme Thursday community. A post in response to this visual prompt.

'Brush up your Shakespeare ...

... start quoting him now' penned the swellegent Mr Cole Porter in 'Kiss me Kate', his riff upon 'The Taming of the Shrew' which took Broadway by storm in 1948.

Thinking along parallel lines, permit me to take a Shakespearian brush to these photographs taken in Castlereagh Street in the City, opposite Tattersalls.

Here we have our modern-day Hamlet, hanging out on the battlements of down-town Sydney, wondering whether he has the gumption to 'off' his mummy's new fella or whether he should just nip into the 'Elephant & Castle' on the corner for another coldie.

To be or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And, by opposing, end them.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

'A midi of Tooheys Old, please mate' ...

A member of the Theme Thursday community. This post is in response to the prompt 'brush'.

In the palm of his hands

In days gone by, people cupped soil and new growth in the palms of their hands. It was a protective gesture, an encouragment for life to thrive, to continue.

Adults cupped the faces of children in their hands, as a gesture of love, and connection. Embedded in our consciousness, is the upturned face of the next generation receiving the collected wisdom of the ages.

Nowadays, we cup communication devices in the palms of our hands, whether they be mobile phones which are connected to the internet by wireless, or whether they be an i-pod capable of random shuffling thousands of pieces of music for our continual delight. We connect to others through the ether.

A member of the Theme Thursday community.

Darlinghurst - A wrinkle in the fabric of a city

Sydney is a city riddled with wrinkles. It is the ‘Benjamin Button’ of cities. Founded on the edge of a steep drowned valley, the topography is ‘wrinkle’ personified: ‘a small furrow, ridge or crease caused by crumpling, folding or shrinking.’ Sydney was born wrinkled and its inhabitants are doing their best to iron these out, to flatten them.


As you travel east from the city centre, it is all up hill and down dale, and onto these furrows and ridges and creases cling small, dishevelled suburbs that are a testament to man’s vision and perseverance. One such suburb is Darlinghurst, which sits atop the second ridge east of the town, wedged in by old cart tracks which are now eight lane highways.


Darlinghurst is a balagan, similar to Kings Cross but minus the sleaze and the criminal element. It is chaotic and messy, but with a warm welcoming embrace. The people hail from the furthest crevaces of the planet, encompassing all ages, all religions and all colours. Darlinghurst is a joy.



A member of the Theme Thursday community.

Theme Thursday - Draft / Draught

When my chidlers were growing up, the four of us would play board games - their choice from what was on the shelf, be it draughts, scrabble, fiddle-sticks, dominoes or rummikub - Uno included. Sandwiched in between dinner and reading on the couch, this was fun. A loaded word 'fun', involving as it does a degree of whimsy, and playfulness, and a decided absence of seriousness.

Under the lid of the Spear's Draughts box (dated MCMLXXXIII and manufactured in the UK), the last line of the instructions declaims:

'Single men, whilst moving forward, can capture Kings.'

This would appear to be a statement worthy of contemplation, and a certain fraying of the edges to release myriad meanings.


A member of the Theme Thursday community

Theme Thursday - Out to lunch back soon

Misshapen by the southerly busters blasting around the headland, the wizened branches of the old callistemon provide a haven of hoppings for the raucous troupe of Rainbow Lorikeets,as they invade the camping ground. They hop. They squabble. They trapeze.

Their antics entrance jaded city-slickers, as they peg tents, unload eskies and pour coldies. Maureen scampers back out to the car, reefs a fat-stained baking tray out from behind the rear seat, and crumbles half of young Raymond’s loaf of white bread into the tray together with a drowning of water.


Over this, much to young Raymonds’ angst (‘Mum, that’s for me pancakes in the morning!’), she drizzles a tablespoon of Capilano 'Red gum' honey, and gives the entire mess a generous ploughing.

As Maureen picks her way gingerly down the eroding edge of the grassy knoll, the lorikeets swoop. Luckily, the National Park rangers are over at Racecourse Caravan park responding to a call. The lorikeets are messy and noisy eaters and will be dun’n’dusted before the ranger’s jeep breasts the dunes at the far end.


A member of the Theme Thursday community