That was at 3.30 am .. and now it's lunchtime
Waht to do when you sit on a chair on a porch outside the greasy spoon and discover most last night's downpour has soaked invisibly into the seat? And you're wearing a clean pair of khaki combats? And you get up and look as if you've wet yourself? Why, you sit on the next door wooden bench, heated in the sunshine, and try to dry off. But you've been seen by a couple of knowing locals, also sitting on benches, who tell you - just that little bit too late - that the seats are wet ...
And how do you eat a BLT with mayo and braces? Why, you share it with the front of your once clean dry khaki combats.
Of course I know what's good for me - the FUCKING BASTARD absent sun is shining hot on my back. So I'm happy sitting on this bench, drying my arse and roasting my soul and bones.
There's a familiar and evocative smell here in the fish dock in Souris - for the first time this trip - of gently decaying shellfish. Strange it might be to say this, but I love it ... the lobster season is over for this year, though, but some fishermen are coming in with their catches of fish packed in ice. A boat ahead of us is unloading their catch, and the languid skinny boy crew with overgrown black hair under his baseball cap is slouching round the wharf making fast, then fixing the boxes of fish to the lifting crane and they're winched ashore, checked by a woman in an official hi-viz vest and clipboard, loaded into a 4x4 and off to a market somewhere.
Oh, and to lower the tone, there's a tiny islet off Ile d'Entree covered all over in shags. Don't have to look far for a name.
Remind me to tell you about the ghost walk, the highlight of my stay in Sydney, will you?