Summer blast hits town; Makybe Diva wins third successive Melbourne Cup; reporters run out of superlatives.
The scribes were calling Makybe Diva immortal after last Saturday week's Cox Plate, so no doubt they were trawling through their dictionaries after the mare won her record-breaking third successive Melbourne Cup in furnace-like conditions yesterday. Where do you go after immortal?
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My sister is in town staying at Mum's, so we thought we would get together and have a picnic somewhere cool and shady. We packed sandwiches and the picnic blanket, went off to the gardens and found a nice spot on a heavily shaded lawn sloping down to the lake - bliss on a hot day. All the usual picnic fare, but with an emphasis on salads (potato and chick pea; avocado, tomato, lettuce, onion) and sandwiches (chilled egg and celery, tuna and cheese) - too hot for pastry and cakey things. There were, however, fresh banana muffins and Mum, of course, brought along a flask of hot tea. She would drink hot tea in the Sahara Desert. 'It's cooling', you see.
Around three o'clock, there was a sudden hush. Groups of people stopped what they were doing, if anything, and huddled around radios. A racecaller's reedy voice could be heard from several points and for three minutes there was no other sound except for the cries of playing children who have yet to learn about the race that stops a nation.
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The Cup I remember most was when I was about eleven or twelve. Dad was a photographer and we were on the course, inside the rail. The earth shook as the horses thundered by for the first time and then two minutes later, I watched, amazed, as a lone horse entered into view. I asked Dad what had happened to the rest of the field. It was 1968 - the year Rain Lover won by what seemed to me like the length of the straight.
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It was still hot in the evening, so we sat outside for a while, William on my knee and a cold beer on the table. Hey William, what's that noise? Just over the side fence we could hear a voice. Next door's parrots - or one of the two at least - had stopped its screeching and squawking and was talking very softly and carefully, as if practising to itself. 'Hel-lo, Cock-yyyy ... hel-lo! ... hel-looooo!' After a while, it gave up and screeched some more.
*
My sister is in town staying at Mum's, so we thought we would get together and have a picnic somewhere cool and shady. We packed sandwiches and the picnic blanket, went off to the gardens and found a nice spot on a heavily shaded lawn sloping down to the lake - bliss on a hot day. All the usual picnic fare, but with an emphasis on salads (potato and chick pea; avocado, tomato, lettuce, onion) and sandwiches (chilled egg and celery, tuna and cheese) - too hot for pastry and cakey things. There were, however, fresh banana muffins and Mum, of course, brought along a flask of hot tea. She would drink hot tea in the Sahara Desert. 'It's cooling', you see.
Around three o'clock, there was a sudden hush. Groups of people stopped what they were doing, if anything, and huddled around radios. A racecaller's reedy voice could be heard from several points and for three minutes there was no other sound except for the cries of playing children who have yet to learn about the race that stops a nation.
*
The Cup I remember most was when I was about eleven or twelve. Dad was a photographer and we were on the course, inside the rail. The earth shook as the horses thundered by for the first time and then two minutes later, I watched, amazed, as a lone horse entered into view. I asked Dad what had happened to the rest of the field. It was 1968 - the year Rain Lover won by what seemed to me like the length of the straight.
*
It was still hot in the evening, so we sat outside for a while, William on my knee and a cold beer on the table. Hey William, what's that noise? Just over the side fence we could hear a voice. Next door's parrots - or one of the two at least - had stopped its screeching and squawking and was talking very softly and carefully, as if practising to itself. 'Hel-lo, Cock-yyyy ... hel-lo! ... hel-looooo!' After a while, it gave up and screeched some more.
That's a great photograph--your dad's, I assume?
ReplyDeleteNo, Mary G. - it's not one of Dad's, it was the only one I could find via Google.
ReplyDelete