Yesterday was the annual Newtown festival. Like all good denizens of the inner-inner-west, we made our gold coin donation, ate chips on a stick, watched the controlled anarchy that was the dog races, and got a tattoo about voting for a Party that was all for untrammelled frolicking in the bedroom (the tattoo washed off so I didn’t have to explain my new-found political consciousness to work colleagues today).
The weather was picture perfect. The sun was warm on the grass from early morning. Sunlight lit up canvas stalls, glanced off people’s sunnies, and snuck onto tree-lined paths. The clouds were small white, like so many baa-lambs (or Edelweiss, if you prefer), and rarely got in the way.
Even St Stephen’s got in on the action, putting on a jumping castle in the yard of its historic cemetery, next to its equally striking Moreton Bay Fig.