A clean bucket, a bottle of gin, some strange limey mineral water. Champers. I smush the limes in my fist to get the juice flowing. Slap some mint around. If we had more ice this would be better. But it’s a very summery drink, and we drink fast.
In the cab I fiddle with my phone and make small talk about the economic crisis with the cab driver. He’s from Ethiopia, has kids and times are tough. I tip him heaps and feel bad and awkward that life’s such a bastard and I still drink top shelf spirits. 
I wear twin sets and pearls and it isn’t ironic. I listen to the buzzcocks and get daggers from my boss. Feel stifled. This ain’t super! But it is… and in the worst way. Count down to fag o’clock, count down to beer o’clock. My best years are dripping away.
in the summer my suburb smells like jasmine, felafel and barbeques. we drink beer outside and listen to reggae and don’t sleep much. barefoot to sevvers for slurpees and off to gangemi’s for mangoes and peaches. And everyone’s kissing stupid boys, leaving work early; revelling in the northern suburbs summer.
