Flame trees at East Point
I’m going to be away for my best friend’s birthday and she’s not happy. So one Sunday afternoon, I buy a bottle of Moet, some strawberries and olives and pick her up for a surprise picnic at East Point. We pick a luscious Poinciana tree glowing in the sunset light and get comfy: fold out chairs, esky, plates of food. I’ve even packed real glasses – champagne flutes and water tumblers.
We’re sitting there, talking about nothing and everything. The red orb of sun folds into the sea. It gets darker and darker and soon there’s just the light from the street and the tanker across the harbour, and a voice makes us jump.
“Ladies? Excuse me, ladies?”
It’s a man in his 40s, bald, well-built, shirtless, on a bike, eyes slightly rolled back in his head, words slurred.
“Ladies, could I beg some of your water for my dog?”
Of course, sure, no problem, we say too quickly.
The dog is nowhere to be seen.
He opens the bottle of water and glugs down half a litre or so, then throws it back to us.
“Thanks. My dog’s called Amos, he’s a harmless little thing.”
The man rides off, and moments later, a giant pig dog comes and sniffs around our picnic and the hermit crabs diligently combing the sand.
My friend hisses and the dog hesitates.
A slurred voice from the dark.
“Amos?”
There’s a whistle, and the water borrowing man and his pig dog disappear into the night.
Postcards from the North 