Do the run to Rushcutter’s and back without taking a photo of the boats on the water, I mean.  It’s the sight of them bobbing gracefully on the water at such close proximity to me, slightly puffed out and sweaty from the stop start choppiness that is trying to run on a golden Friday afternoon.  The sun makes them glitter a little and the slight haze makes them look otherworldly.  And then there’s the gentle clunking they make as the waves prod them this way and that.  It’s a close to perfect way to start the weekend.

No running on water this time…

And to think that I willingly start up a treadmill at the gym, stare at its screens and push its buttons with such grim determination when I could be running here…

The noise and impatient hustle of the city is only a few hundred metres away but the trees buffer it with a stately and steady competence.  That’s what I think of when I look up at their branches – stately and steady, lungs and walls, citizens of our city that we can’t afford to lose anymore of.

And the charm of this pair of terraces that we often walk past on our way to the library.  The riot of colour of its front gardens, the greens and reds of the wrought iron, the ochre that’s appeared through the white paint.

Colour and light.  They are with us every day yet we often don’t have the time to mull over their complexities and the way pondering them makes us feel.