Articles in “Random Photographs”

And this is my other favourite aspect of life in Brisbane: the storms. I’ve never lived in a subtropical environment before, and I never get used to it.

The storm rolling in from the west:

The palm tree in the front garden:

The palm and jacaranda in the front garden:

Rain pouring through the guttering:

The mulberry outside the study, with the amazing sky behind:

As suspected, I am now strongly attached to the idea of adding photos to the blog. In fact, this evening’s storm means two whole entries devoted to photographs (perhaps a little odd, given that my ostensible interests are reading and writing, but everyone likes attractive pictures to look at on the Internet, surely?)

Brisbane is not known for its autumnal foliage. Those plants that are deciduous—the mulberry tree outside my study, for example, or the little frangipani out the back—tend to be the less-interesting kind of deciduous; the leaves just turn yellow and fall off.

But sometimes, the autumn seed pods are attractive in their own right:

Despite my woeful lack of anything approaching botanical knowledge—made worse by the fact that my father now refuses to use anything but Latin names, which I can’t remember and, in fact, now make no effort to remember—I’m fairly certain that these are the seed pods of the Cat’s Claw, a weed that spreads prolifically but does produce gorgeous, bright-yellow, bell-shaped flowers.

I also like the seed pods, mostly because they look like they’d be fun to pop—like the flowers of fuschias. Since Cat’s Claw is so noxious, I don’t pop them—not that I think the creeper needs my help to spread its seed, but I don’t need to make the situation worse—but I certainly enjoy thinking about it.

My bougainvillea is still in flower, too:

It’s only a small bush, growing at the end of the garden, but the magenta flowers are magnificent, even when they’re towards the end of their life span and yellowing:

I think, ultimately, that’s what I like best about Brisbane: the greenness of it all, even in the approach to winter.

Since I’ve been downloading images from the camera—and a blog is essentially an exercise in solipsism—I thought I may as well upload some images of flower arrangements from my 30th birthday.

I’m actually not really keen on being given flowers; Nick very rarely does so, although he occasionally bought a pretty bunch when we had a service station next door to us, largely to save them from the petrol fumes.

But flowers make me anxious, because I struggle to keep them alive and each day they get a little more ragged and I get more distressed about my botanical skills.

I think my family knows this, because they rarely send me flowers.

But they clearly felt that a 30th birthday was an occasion, because two bunches arrived.

I’d forgotten about these photos, which were taken 18 months ago, so it’s wonderful to see the arrangements in all their glory.

The first bunch is from my parents.

(Conveniently, this picture also shows my swan-shaped lamp, which I love quite beyond reason. I saw it first on a ridiculously expensive antiques website, and we decided it wasn’t worth the money. When I saw it again—at a much lower price, I might add—on ebay.com six months later, my heart leapt in my chest and I insisted on buying it. I love it every time I look at it.)

These arrived quite early in the day, when I was tidying and decorating the house with the help of my marvellous best friend—who had arrived from Sydney that morning with her less-than-four-months-old younger son in tow, and then not only spent the entire day helping me decorate and cook, but also spent the entire evening running around after people while I drank. Her son, my equally accommodating nephew, spent the night sleeping.

Nick must have been apprised of the imminent arrival of some flowers, because he answered the door and called me to the living room. When I insisted I was busy, he said, “No, you really have to collect this yourself.”

Turned out he was as surprised as anyone, because he’d been expecting this bunch, from my sister and sister-in-law:

(Alas, no swan lamp, but pretty funky curtains.)

It’s strange how not downloading photographs from your digital camera for 18 months can bring on such such a saccharine outpouring of nostalgia, isn’t it?

Blame it on my happy childhood; a happy childhood makes nostalgia a wonderful place to visit.

Nick has claimed for many years that we have too many cushions. In fact, when we were watching a season of Coupling and Steve went into a rant about the uselessness of cushions, Nick couldn’t even meet my eyes.

But I love my cushions. Partly, it’s that I don’t like my sofas. One—salvaged from a share house many moons ago—is brutally uncomfortable, especially now that the foam cushions have reached the couldn’t-bounce-back-even-if-they-wanted-to stage of life. The other two sofas came from a family member’s estate and, while we were and are very grateful for them, they’re shallow with low arms, which means you need cushions to sit on them, given the orientation of the living room.

However, I admit I may have gone too far. I’m attached both to the idea that cushions are a convenient way of adding colour and texture to a room and to symmetry in room furnishings. These two notions have led directly to a cornucopia of cushions, all in neat pairs.

But which ones could I possibly get rid of?

The ones in pseudo-Chinese “silk”: one gold and one a beautiful dark green? Nick bought them for me, so they have sentimental value. (That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.)

The ones that look like someone skinned and stuffed a Muppet? Well, two Muppets, pink and blue. Those are pleasingly furry on cold nights.

The big, square ones shaped like fuzzy dice? Those speak for themselves, surely—as do the furry blue stars.

The retro-patterned blue and red ones made out of the material you get when you turn a tracksuit inside out? One would have to have a heart of stone not to want cushions made of that fabric. Is there anything more comforting than the inside of a tracksuit?

No, I can’t cull my cushions, although I may curse them when I have to tidy up my living room or when Nick gets frustrated and throws them all over the back of the sofa.

The best I can do is not to buy any more.