One of those late-February Adelaide days. I had very dear friends visiting from Sydney, Katie and Dan, women I have at various times and in the same perfect terrace, lived with, happily. Something about friends like that makes it feel more like family, a certain ease and knowing. Their generosity and understanding, and especially all their laughs.
We’d been down to Port Willunga the day before, and wowed by the Fringe and too many wines the night before that. So Sunday was slow. Coffees and fruit up in Stirling, games and races in the pool with my nieces and lunch in the shade at the markets. In the afternoon we wandered around in the cool of the art gallery, slowly, like through honey, not talking much, just taking in the rosy southern cliffs by Horace Trenery, the tightly-bound red of the Shiota and the dappled Ian Fairweather, all texture and mess. We had an afternoon wine at Hellbound which seemed to lift us, because we all sang very loudly and passionately back in the car, Orange Crush and Nothing Compares, both near-perfect songs. Screaming as singing, lots of hand gestures and emotion.
It was golden hour by the time I dropped them at the airport, and met my family for dinner at Parwana. I walked in late to a table full of colourful plates of Afghani food for the nine of us, two half bottles of wine left, and Daisy, who sat on my lap so I could only eat with one hand and I didn’t mind it at all.