Wenda Rogerson, 1948

Unknown Model in Dior day dress, 1948

Jean Patchett and Ernest Hemingway, 1950
(images via fotodecadent)

Well, well, well. That was a little break wasn't it? I haven't been in the mood for posting of late. Many reasons but they aren't really good enough excuses. I'm pretty cold. That's for sure. This morning I arose at 6:30. Wandering home was like being slapped in the face by your trainer when you've made a terrible mistake in the ring and are concussed. Bright eyed and bushy tailed I wander through the apparent temperature of 2.6 degrees with the hazy blue sky attempting a sunny return.
Magpies chortled from around 8:30am.
I have been officially hibernating. Small and considered outings have taken place minimally. My neighbourhood is becoming eerily familiar. The kind of familiarity that constitutes one block. And one block only.
The next door neighbour turns the light in his kitchen on at around 9:00pm and off at 9:30.
There is the lady that mows the lawn weekly with her quiet blades pushing along. Her drawn on eye brows looking constantly surprised. Natalya and I muse about the loss of the eyebrow late in life. I don't think I'll ever pluck again.
There is the endearing and sickening couple I walk past on the way to Julio. I call them the 'Dulux' couple. They have a house, a dog and are renovating in the cutest way. Paint on their noses, matching tracksuits and 'in love' glances across the veranda while their large white bulldog sits obediantly looking on. Etc.
The elderly men on the fence on Miller St tipping their hats and saying hello with inquistive glances.

Who is this girl that wanders back and forth?