The Richmond eases its wide bulk into the sea: a sluggish river of milk chocolate lumped through with half-sunk timber thick enough to breach a sailing boat’s hull. Unexpected rain squalls blast through the town, trapping the unwary as they round a blind corner.
We passed each other at the pharmacy entrance, me going in and him coming out. He’s shorter than me by four inches, solid, same age, packet of drugs under one arm, a furled umbrella held in his other hand.
He stops, looks at me. Looks at my umbrella.
And I say.
‘But not as nice as mine.’
I hold out my (furled) umbrella for his examination, it’s a multi-coloured golfer’s extravaganza. Greg Norman quality.
Understanding the challenge, he says.
I look at him, smile,