Being a bit of a whizz on world geography, I happen to know
that Australia
is in the southern hemisphere, so I'm aware that their seasons are back to front. That means
it’s autumn Down Under. I go further and remember that an erstwhile correspond
from that fair continent once informed me that Victoria prides itself on being
the upmarket state, so a picture begins to take form.
I imagine my visitor to be living in an old, villa-style
house – a remnant of colonial days probably – and is sitting on his or her
balcony in the gentle warmth of an antipodean autumn morning. He or she is
taking coffee in the company of some extravagant plant with luxuriant foliage
which compliments the filigree design of the wrought iron balustrade perfectly.
Together they are shaded from the glare of the morning sun by the leaves of an
old beech tree, planted long ago by a Victorian (assume whichever definition
you prefer) colonial officer who, on finding himself unable to be in England
now that April’s here, chose to plant a reminder of the Old Country so that he
could at least bask in its golden radiance when dear April was forced to wear
the garb of an incongruous season. Lying on the table is a half finished
crossword in whichever newspaper presumes to be the Australian equivalent of
The Times. And so it goes on…
I expect I’m completely wrong, but I do wonder whether some
person in Victoria, Australia is concurrently engaged
in a reciprocal muse about the writer of a blog sitting in his house at 10.22pm
enjoying the supposed delights of a properly vernal English April. I doubt it,
which is why it’s merely idle speculation to fill the gap between the ending of
tonight’s DVD and engagement with the diurnal shower routine.
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