Perfect Day

Here we are, just the three of us. Our dog, Lucy, my husband, John, and I.
We’re out for an evening stroll in the park. The sun has sunk below Mundaring’s horizon, but the crowds will be still farewelling it on Scarborough Beach.

We enter a park so different to the one we went to this morning. Then it was bustling and noisy.
A gentle breeze carried the sound of a musician as he played a ukulele and sang bush songs throughout the park. Dozens of stalls offered everything from plants to baby clothes, soaps, jewellery, toys, lotions, jams, and pickles. The vibe, cheerful, happy on that beautiful day as people enjoyed themselves, perhaps searching for the perfect gift for their perfect person.
         The markets, held each month on the grass, spread out as far as the scout hall and the carpark across from the Old Station- master’s house.

“Hello!”
I turned to see if someone was calling to me and saw Mel who runs the ‘Move and Groove’ classes in the hall. I walked over to where she was standing spruiking her classes.
“Hi, how’s it going? Getting much interest?” I asked.
“Not bad,” she replied, before she waved to someone to come over to where we stood. Mel introduced us. The lady was holding a collection tin.
“What are you collecting for?” I asked
“Save the Hills,” she said.
I nodded wisely.
“That Satterley is still trying to win.” She frowned. “He’s holding private forums now. We need to keep an eye on him.”
I knew she was talking about a developer who is attempting to build a housing estate here in the hills, much to great opposition. I nod my head in agreement with what she’s saying, “I know, he’s trouble.” I said. “Sorry, I’d better go.” I pointed to John, leaning, waiting. He looked resigned.

The smells coming from the food stalls were tempting, however I was there for a specific reason; to buy a plant for a friend’s birthday.

***

But now all the people have gone. The park is as if there had been no market there at all.
We wander, just we three, in the relative silence. The day has been warm, the warmest one for many months. The flies are yet to go to bed and are making their annoying presence felt. I swat one away, and almost knock my glasses from my face. It simply won’t leave me alone, and insists on accompanying me.
There is music coming from the pub, I recognise many of the tunes and hum along as we continue our after-dinner stroll.
On the children’s playground, a few stragglers are still squeezing just a little more out of the day. A big sister is hanging on the flying fox with her younger siblings. She is laughing unselfconsciously like the child she still is but probably would hate her High School friends to observe.
A little kid has fallen off his bike on the gravel path a few hundred metres away from us. As we get closer, I watch as both parents crouch down to his level, reassuring and soothing. Mum picks him up and dad carries the bike. They go on their way; the child has stopped crying and is snuggled safe in his mother’s arms.
I’m reminded of so many, “nice little ride in the park on your bike,” trips, when crying children are comforted and bikes and scooters are carried home.
A wattle bird swoops down and pecks Lucy’s bum, distracting her from her stalking as yet unaware rabbit. We laugh at her obvious annoyance.
We’re turning now to home; the music still plays from the Mundaring Hotel and we’re discussing whether we should go and listen to the band and have a drink. We decide against it.
Passing the rotunda, I notice our local homeless man has left his bedroll and blanket, ready for when he leaves the pub later tonight.

Lucy has a last joyous roll on the grass. The end of another perfect day.