By the time the first car laboured up the steep drive from Blues Point, house-trained me had already straightened the bed cover and fluffed up the cushion which was colour-co-ordinated with the lime-coloured tree in the street outside.
I sat down for a coffee and a croissant at the small coffee shop which was owned and operated by a Cambodian family. In fact, up the road they owned a second one which meant they had more coffee shops than words in their English vocabulary but with lots of smiles we agreed that it was a bonzer of a day - whatever 'bonzer' is in Cambodian - and that I was now a member of their family as long as I drank all their coffee and ate all their croissants and gave them all the money I had in my pocket.
I usually talk to everyone with a dog - indeed, when travelling, I talk to everyone full-stop - , so when Eric the Ten-Pound-Pom came by with his Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, we exchanged our migrant experiences. Somehow I felt I had advanced more than he had because, while I had lost most of mine, his accent was still as thick as clotted cream on a scone (I almost used a different metaphor but don't want to offend a certain reader of this blog. I'm keeping you guessing, aren't I, Des?)
Next came a man dressed in a business suit and two schnauzers on a lead. When I commented on how good-looking they were, he added that they also made good office-dogs. Was he allowed to bring dogs to the office? "I never asked the boss", he replied. "I am the boss".
It was so pleasant sitting there in the sun and watching the passing parade, I was almost reluctant to move on to keep my lunchtime appointment which was the whole reason for my coming to Sydney.
As I had been all my life, I was early for this appointment and so took a delaying walk through Wendy's Secret Garden which was started by Brett Whiteley's ex-wife to become an oasis of peace in Sydney's madness.
Of course, we all remember when Brett Whiteley died from a drug overdose - suicide, accident or death wish? we will never know - in the Beach Motel at Thirroul in June 1992. In fact, I had stayed in the same motel but probably in a different room and certainly for a different reason in December 1993 when memories of his death were still very much alive. To read more (not about me but Brett), click here.
For the luncheon intermission at the Kirribilli Club, click here.
For what comes after that, don't click anywhere. Just wait!
