Last Sunday was the kind of Sunday where you open all the windows. You scrub and sweep, wash and fold, tidy and do until there is no more to be done. You listen to new Ben Gibbard and old Wilco and sing along rather too loudly. You wash your hair and dig out your favourite Converse sneakers and, by about 4, walk out into the last of the day feeling accomplished (and ready for a drink). The afternoon is warm, and autumn hasn't turned all the trees just yet, so the light is dappled and all kinds of lovely.
There is a moment, as you walk along Bourke Street, where things feel just right.