It's usually quiet for me on a Saturday night. No more discos. With a window of opportunity in my line of sight, I ducked out, without the glitter, to see what was what on the back porch. The frame above had belonged to my grandparents. I hope they don't mind what I've done to it.
Opposite my back door is another of my assemblages, littered as the property is with them. It is not 3 pm, by the way, but after 10 pm. The full moon out beyond is beautiful. Branches of olive can be difficult to fit into a pot, twisting as they do their own ways, but then, who of us hasn't?
Call me bored, but in your 50s you get to do stuff like this, nip outside into the bracing air, take pot-shots of whatever bits of elaboration you encounter. Home is an adventure.
A non-functioning lamp. So much of what I have is non-functioning, a situation I prefer to one where I'm sort of beating everyone, skipping the light fantastic on the top floor, as may have happened in the past.
Once in a while, he suggests, a night-time photograph comes out better than a daytime image. I was not given any orchids tonight, but I found this at my back steps.
And this, one of my favourite flowers, nicked from a neighbour's garden, where it hangs over the pavement so fully Zara and I have to wend our way under/around it, Hakea laurina.
No, there's no fever here, this Saturday night. Just a photographer snooping. Who doesn't like Cyclamen? Much better to find outside your door than a strobe light.
This is Zara's semi-outdoor snooze-box, used only when she, patient doggy, is feeling the dance is sort of done.
We're inside now, not wanting wild flings. A night is passing on tip-toes, not flashing any lights, not a scream to be heard.