Well, it’s my birthday today and I’m old enough not to want to say how old I am. I’m sitting in a cafe just off Little Lonsdale street over a bitter-tasting mocha in a strangely modish Melbournish cup, waiting for the State Library to open.
The day after New Year’s Day. Always a kind of bleached-light, after-the-party sort of time to have a birthday. There were still people enough on the tram from Richmond this morning, but the roads and streets feel emptier than usual, and the light was subdued after the above-forty temperatures they’ve been having here the past few days.
Sitting here (with the new year and the newly updated age and the lulled-volume jazz in the background) makes me feel as I should turn reflective. But really, the kind of part-forlorn, part-petulant cast my thoughts usually assume on birthday occasions is not something I want to indulge. I often fell myself slipping into it come mid-morning, feeling the luxurious pull of that kind of melancholy. But not today.