I've just made the snap decision to stop in for a quick Stella on my way home from a pleasant afternoon's meandering conversation with my good and dear friend Shaun.
I'm at PJ O'Briens' having sauntered through the impressive lobby of the Grace Hotel on York, Sydney with (I hope) the air of a woman who knoweth where she goeth(e).
There's a pleasant crowd here, it's early enough to avoid the drunks, just enough people to keep the bartenders busy, not too busy that they can't chat in between drink-pours and table-clears.
One of the barstaff is Irish - possibly from Dublin - recently I'd say given his use of the word 'bollicker' for box - by way of explanation for where I could find the matches I so desperately am ashamed to admit I required (desperately!).
There's a group of women/girls/females/chicks not far from my table. One of which is of asian appearance - but I'd suggest Japanese heritage with Australian-born parents. She is the epitome of self-centredness as far as I can tell. She is calm, watchful, observant yet effortlessly multi-tasking as she listens to her friend talk about a boy to her right, whilst making a call on her mobile at the same time.
The woman to the right of the Japanese multi-tasker could be from anywhere. Truly: Lebanon. Turkey. Italy. Greece. Poland. Ireland. The woman to the right of the one from somewhere in Europe/UK is bottle-blonde-but-not-brassy.
They've just been surprised by an unexpected delivery of food - gifted by a table of boys nearby.
It is impossible to be sure if they know the blokes.
There are three blokes at the food-gifting table and that complicates the nature of things a little.
I do not have a clear line of sight to the fourth woman, I can see her in left profile only. She either uses a lot of mascara or is wearing fake eyelashes. Those puppies could clean the floor.
The fifth member of the girl-table has her back to me. She is also blonde. Her hair is wavy and platinum and lank-ish. She is thin. Pretty in a motorsport-event kind of a way. She has doe eyes and flawless skin. No doubt skilled at whatever she does, and conscientious and hardworking with it. Possibly also wearing the fake eyelashes, but as they appear so natural it is hard to be sure.
She smokes quickly, thumb-flicking her cigarette in to the ashtray behind her. It's an amateur-smokers' thumbflick. Robotic, an almost nervous response.
The dark-haired-could-be-from-anywhere has a charming demeanour. She is an expressive sort, gesturing quite naturally with her fork to underline her conversation. She wears a silver cross large enough to indicate that she is religious, but not so large that it's ostentatious.
I think that she's just twigged that while she's been engrossed in her conversation I've been covertly painting her with my words.
And therein lies the problem: If an artist paints your portrait - it is only natural to want to see it - to see ones essential character captured with brushstrokes and colour. What one immediately looks for is the representation of ones true self.
I am not now, or at any time, prepared to dilvulge what I have written - in this place (pub - not blog) for me this is an exercise in setting the scene.
The three - now - four blokes at the table that offered the food are no longer attentive. In response the women have become louder.
Doe-eyes has long slender fingers. She does not have the nail-extensions so hot right now in Sydney. Except they aren't. Hot. I refer to them as porn-star nails and I am certain that most blokes have a similar visual response.
When I see them, I sigh. Inwardly. They - the nails - are acrylic. Fake. Wrong. Ridiculous. Impractical. An obvious waste of money. A sheer waste of time and wilful disregard that the women who are employed to apply them are placed in clear and present danger every single day, given that the fumes from the chemical process are toxic.
The particles from the filings are so fine that both client and manicurist will suffer side-effects from inhaling them. Mesothelioma? Who knows really.
However, every aspect of daily life will kill us all eventually. Slowly for an unfortunate few.
If vanity achieves the desired result - is the risk to ones' health worth it in the short/medium/long term? Ever?
Does any one truly give this idea the considertaion it may or may not deserve?
I don't know that I do.
When I am an old lady I think I will have the answer. But not before.
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