Last night I went down to The Garden Of Unearthly Delights to watch Monique Brumby. All up, it was a very interesting evening...
Walking, at pace, down Rundle Street. I hear snippets of other people's conversations.
"How many Target shops are there in the world, Mummy?"
"Oh, millions, dear..." Mum says, without needing to think.
"My car shits all over that heap!" a cocksure, pockmarked boy brags, as he walks along the footpath. Walks.
I get to The Garden sometime around nine. I meet a friend, and we wax lyrical as we share a couple of glasses of hideously overpriced wine. Solving the world's problems is becoming quite an expensive pastime.
We go to the gig. It's the first time I have seen Monique Brumby and I am impressed. The hour passes quickly; good vibes wrapped up in a late Sunday late summer slightly inebriated way. Almost perfect.
After a series of random post-gig events, I end up chatting with Brumby and her bass player for a while. Recording at home, studying music, Andy White (no surprise given my t-shirt) and my 12-string are all topics that come and go.
It's work for some of us tomorrow, so all good things etc.
I pour myself into a taxi and, about half-way home, the driver says "Do you ever get the feeling that each day is harder than the last, and that it all sometimes seems like too much trouble?"
Not sure where we are headed (hopefully Millswood), I engage in some lightweight existentialism before tipping generously and exiting the cab.
Here's to you taxi driver, I hope your Monday turned out alright.