Ice Cream Sunday/sundae?

Today was Winton’s annual open day. This year they called it ‘Ice Cream Sunday’ and the theme was ice-cream … all very well and good, except that Spouse and I don’t eat ice-cream—we have other, more fleshy, delights. Think rampant carnivore.

So I drifted like a sampling rabbit from street-barbecue to barbecue, and sampled. There’s something about the savoury smell of smoke from a scrumptiously sizzling sausage, a siren song that reaches out, catches the attention and drags one in. I’m easy, a sucker for a snag.

So with Spouse thinking many tuts (on Open Day she’s not allowed to bleat, but I could FEEL the silent disapproval) (we husbands are psychic like that) I sampled sausages, and coffee, and venison, and coffee, and sausages, and chips (that’s French Fries to some) and sausages; and filled in my day productively whilst she rabbited through all the usual girlie stuff (blouses, perfumes, craft bits, a polished beach-rock pendant and suchlike).

The weather was kind, unreal after all the gales and re-entrant wintry blasts of the last few weeks (global warming? Yes please—back up the truck, and give it wings!) that made such a mockery of the spring thus far.

Not unlike the day the ‘Gypsy Fair’ passed through Invercargill a while ago, actually.

I have a fantastic zoom on my wee camera and love getting candids of people simply being people, hence this reflective young man—

—I’ve often wondered what he saw in that mirror. As for the wee passing Maori boy, all he would have seen would’ve been the caravans and wagons and stalls (I was an awesome way off behind an awning).

All good fun, and only a whole year to wait for the next one …

KISMET