Indian summer

we don't use that term to explain the hot weather, that lingers in Adelaide during festival season. Has always been warm in March, that I can recall. As I crossed Gouger Street this morning, I stepped over a pavement that had doused in spilt beer, now dry, now lingering as that smell of summer, of bands, and late nights and sweaty crowds, and glossy black skies and melting asphalt. I had to take the kid into the GP because he'd been vomiting. He cuddled up into my arms afterwards, after we'd showered, after he'd tried to gargle the gastric juices out of his mouth. Cuddled up, wanting some comfort, wrapping his arms around me. Such as sweet boy, even though he later did all the typical toddler things (strewn oats across the kitchen floor, rear-ended the kitchen bin, yelled his angriest sound at me, nodded when I asked if he was angry, said "sorry mummy" and hugged me in apology). Anyway, they say he'll be fine, and the GP was more concerned about the coin that is yet to make an exit from his body. He still keeps talking about that, tells me about swallowing it down his mouth, reenacts the passage of the coin down to his tummy, jumps up and down on the bed as he repeats the story. The house is a bomb, I don't care.