Alcohol

Long-stemmed beauty, elegant glassy green, charging brimwards with fizzing soupy slake, on my table now thanks to Belgium's hardest working monks. You moved me to photography a few weeks ago, but unsteadied my hand for that careful self-portrait.
Your Baltic cousin, standing proud at half a litre, nudging slightly over two standard drinks, sits on my outside desk. Regimented member of the boutique fridge; complicated coat of arms proudly unreadable to my eyes.
And next to him the squat dark form of yet another Flemish wonder - bringing back memories of inebriated companions on a gastronome's tour of foreign supermarkets, and the conveniently placed cafes that allowed us the status of regulars after only one week.
Kidneys, liver: remember the weekend? That little nip of Mescal from the front room? Another nip before returning home on bicycle, recent lesson unlearned? The room was on the verge of a spin but my calloused insides prevented this from happening.
And the following night a world tour of liquids - beer, wine, spirits, even a spot of water drunk from a jar.
The past weeks' rapid shrinking acts of ten dollar boxes, of smaller-than-average glasses to justify just one more, the sampling of what's not mine, all of this is now behind.
And now the fridge is replenished, the spares won't go missing again; green tea is all, green tea is all.

Fog

The fog had already begun as I opened the first bottle at James' new residence, and it continued to thicken throughout our game of Sale of the Century, shrouding the streetlights theatrically as our laughter mingled with a soundtrack of Springsteen and Dvorak. I took myself for a walk back home, setting off toward the gardens clutching my recent gift: a book on Sweden (those stunning Social Democrats). The night's third bottle, as well as its predecessors, reminded me that I wasn't likely to sleep any time soon, so I ambled amiably through the parkland and noted with piercing glee that this misty blanket had progressed significantly since the dinner party, making its slothful way around every clammy corner. The city skyline was obscured; all lights were Vaselined; and for two hours my rapidly draining camera captured small fractions of the still, gothic beauty.

Cemeteries

Those who know of my predilection for cemetery picnics are either fellow enthusiasts or mystified nay-sayers - very rarely does the suggestion of feasting amongst the tombstones provoke apathy. But really, what could be nicer? A calm idyll in the centre of the city, dotted with sun-dappled groves of evergreens and lawn, and all around you the solemn yet peaceful air of eternal rest (or eterno riposo). If I were one of the formerly mobile, I'd be thrilled to have a bit of lively company six feet over. I've never felt disrespectful or sacrilegious in my appreciation of the plots and their permanent tenants - in fact I'm pleased to integrate them back into the community, albeit briefly. A man occasionally practices trumpet in one of its rotundas; many more use its main road as a pleasant shortcut to the university. The cemetery is dead; long live the cemetery.

Supermarkets

Approximately 2 weeks' worth of anticipation was rewarded with a recent visit to the Piedemonte's Supermarket cafe. With its soothing wood-panelled interiors, erratic chorus of register beeps, and a spectacular vista over the catwalk aisles below, it was easy to imagine that this mezzanine was indeed what heaven really looked like. The combination of hysteria and free rum-balls made for lively conversation, interrupted frequently by bouts of anecdotes and sympathy. A strict no-photography rule was outlined by a low-key but insistent store manager, but this merely fuelled the illicit enjoyment of our everyday surrounds. Service was excellent, atmosphere defiantly of another era, and all in all, the 30-odd minutes we spent were 30 odd minutes.

Trees

Not since a bothersome plague of anxiety attacks in my early 20s have I had the feeling that trees are watching me. A few days ago, over dinner preparations at my father's house, I looked up at the autumnal branches all stretched and still, and it struck me suddenly that trees were alive: not walking, but very much breathing, growing, and feeling. I had to interrupt the flow of talk as a blunt sensation of eeriness folded itself into my brain. I remembered how creepy I used to think nature was, with its non-mammal ways of enlarging slowly in one fixed spot, and the way that some trees looked like frozen explosions, while others hung limp, and yet others were stark, strong shields. A silent band of aliens watching me. I've since reacquainted myself with them, but every now and then there is this residual twinge of disturbing uncertainty. I suppose I'm a bit addicted to anthropomorphism, but I'm including the picture above as the tree in question really did look out of breath, as though it were briefly leaning on the brickwork for support before resuming its activities.

Trolleys

Runaway supermarket trolleys are a well-documented phenomenon. But it recently struck me that significantly more have appeared around inner Melbourne over the last few months. I've started photographing them whenever I've got my trusty digital friend at hand, and the numbers are racking up fast (witness these two charming examples discussing life near Royal Park). As I continue to wander the streets I've also noticed they're not going anywhere. I've passed several that are now as much a fixture of the landscape as fire-hydrants, lamp posts, and old vomit. Is there a fanatical, rebel group at work, a la the Gnome Liberation Front? Or do I simply have too much time on my hands? Either way, there's a whole lot of dollar coins begging to be retrieved.