At the Black Dog cafe.
It’s Poetry Day in New Zealand, but apart from a friend’s email wishing me Happy Poetry Day, I wouldn’t have remembered.
Poetry and I are taking a bit of a breather right now. I’m more into blogging and creative non-fiction these days. (I’m actually beginning to suspect that in my case, blogging and creative non-fiction may just be the same thing).
Pretty sure my dentist wouldn’t know anything about it being Poetry Day. I was dreading some pain and discomfort and bad, bad, expensive news, but it was better than I had anticipated. Just some minor problems with my gums.
It’s raining outside; traffic trawling past the cafe windows with that resilient air people, animals, machines and buildings take on when under sufferance from inclement weather.
On the sound system; American music verging on a type of reggae blues. The tambourine a major feature.
Street art on the wall of the car park
My hot choc having reached an end, I’m back out into the cold fresh rain; my gums and I having come to an agreement to look after each other better and keep dentist appointments to a minimum.
“Do you have a preference for appointment times?” the receptionist asked me.
“Yes. Afternoons,” I said, “I don’t do mornings”.