Sunday

We try to post about the unusual in the ordinary, the strange, humorous, annoying, silly, slightly wry, or at least the beautiful we see around us.

Based on Saturday's ennui, I've suggested to F that for a week we catalogue the just plain ordinary; the every day stuff that repeats and repeats and forms the brickwork on which our lives are based. 

It's Sunday and it's still hot.

There is a temperature measuring thing by the balcony door.  At 10am it looks like this.  The sun has risen above the eucalyptus trees and is soaking the rocks, the pavements, the asphalt road surface and the sea.

Our blinds are half way down. All the way down blocks too much of the slight breeze that forms as the land heats up, air rises and draws in at the bottom the slightly cooler air from over the water.

Sea breezes.

F has fed me, watered the plants, fed the cousins downstairs (Leftie got a worm pill today - I don't envy him), been for a swim, and sat on the balcony with a black coffee reading blogs.  She has noticed that our floors are dusty and cat fur is collecting in places where the breezes whirl and die. She has cleared the kitchen benches, done dishes and filed the food that resulted from yesterday's cooking session (when the oven gets fired up, she fills it - baked beans, spinach baked polenta,  zucchini muffins.... unfortunately no chicken).

The fridge is 'jammers' and she will eat from there all week now. Fruit and veg, beans and polenta, water melon juice, feta cheese, olives, capers, and a brown paper bag of fresh parsley to make a tabbouleh.

And no chicken.

She says the butcher is on holiday until the end of the month.

There must be other butchers.

Surely?

My food is sealed in little aluminium trays in a tub under the sink.

Beside her coffee, F's work phone makes regular notice noises to say emails have arrived - she checks only to find it is a berthing schedule update for a ship due to discharge coal at a Chinese power plant.

On the other side of the coffee is the makings

of a string shopping bag.  She will work on that fitfully, aware as she does that there are things of more immediate importance she could (maybe should) be doing.  

That cat fur in the corners won't sweep itself up.

And indoors, hunched beside the sewing machine is a cot-sized patchwork quilt that needs finishing. Babies grow fast. 

Maybe, if things cool a bit as the sun is setting, we will venture onto the rocks and breathe in the evening.  For now we move slowly and try to find those places where the breeze wafts a little more persistently.