security is important

Some days the desire to get out and hit the streets just aint there. Its drizzly and grey outside, and it’s a public holiday to boot. My internet’s running slow, I’m bored with all my music. What to do? Just go with it eh? Have a bath and read a book maybe. An invite from the ‘sham scrabble club would go down a treat right now…

Yesterday I woke up restless. I had to get out of the house and do something, give some structure to my day. I looked up the yoga schedule. At ten am there was a casual class: “Yoga For Anxiety”. That sounded like the ticket. The strange thing was, the closer I got to the yoga school, the more anxious I felt. The door was locked, but I could see people inside. I rattled the handle like I had made some kind of mistake, like the door was jammed.

A lady came up from the street with keys. “Oh, it’s YOU!” I said, oddly – even though I had never seen her before in my life. She gave me a funny look and opened the door. Inside, eight or so women were waiting silently on the couches. I felt my anxiety levels rising again. The teacher was late. We all sat there, not talking, waiting til she arrived.

The class itself was, of course, just what I needed. Lots of breathing, lots of concentration on the movement of the stomach in and out, lots of lying with the spine flat on the floor.

On the way home, I walked past the White Cockatoo. A security guard was standing outside. I asked him whether the place had indeed been held up the night before. “No,” he said, “nothing happened. But thanks for checking in. Security is important. People don’t realise that.” We shook hands and I crossed over the railway bridge to the south side.

Luciana was waiting for the lights at Audley and Canterbury. We waved and stood there, on opposite sides of the road, neither of us sure who should be the one to let the other cross. She signaled that she was going to Charlie’s Deli. Well, I thought, I’ll go to Charlie’s too. I could use some eggs.

Inside Charlie’s we were greeted by Sam. Evidently Luciana and Sam speak Italian together when she goes in to shop. I never have myself, being too shy to try it out, but with Luciana for moral support, we engaged in a solid exchange. Sam told us he’s been working in the store for 26 years: “But if you want the really interesting stories about our history, you should speak to my mother,” he said. I thought about this later. Twenty six years is a fair amount of time to accrue one’s own set of stories, I would have thought. But perhaps Sam’s mother is the family racconteur (racconteuse?). I look forward to spending some time with her. She is a handsome woman, all in black, a classic Italian vedova. There’s often a baby hanging out in the store too, and they toddle around together. The two of them are just too beautiful for words. So simple and happy. Sam suggested I come back during the week – but probably not Thursday or Friday.

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