Barbeques.

70. A hot, bright afternoon. Lost in the sea of papers and to the melancholy notes of Chopin's Nocturnes, I am trying to find my way to Melbourne, when, appropriately, the seductive aroma of a barbeque weaves through the open window. 

Eyes closed, the combination of the unusual heat and the sausage smell temporarily transports me back to Down Under, where, true to the Australian cliché, I have spent endless occasions around a barbeque: birthdays, Australian Day, ANZAC Day, Sundays, footy weekends (which take up one half of the year) and cricket weekends (which take up the other half). Upon finding out that I am Aussie-ish, people here often ask whether it's true that I usually "slap a prawn on a barbie", and now that I really think about it, we rarely did. More often than not, it would be sizzling sausages, marinated lamb, chicken legs, caramelized onions, potato salads, and a million other things that we would individually bring for the barbeque host, and then spend the next five meals finishing. 

And, now that I really think about it, all these barbeques have been in Adelaide...

71. A life's ironic imitation of a scene from the TV series Friends. 

"So you really work with her boyfriend?" he asks me, slightly tilting his head toward her direction.
"Yep." 
"Is it weird, that now you know, and she knows you know but he doesn't know you know, and, she knows that he doesn't know you know?" 

72. Nightlife near Avenue Louise.