The Red Cup

Reunited with my Mac.  And it feels so good.

Sunday morning brekky at this little cafe in Melbourne’s eastern suburbs.  The café’s owner had recently made her way into suburbia from the foyer of one of the city’s most prestigious addresses.  Quite a change from the new lodgings, a former laundromatt where not much washing had been done, so I was told, the teller punctuating his tale with a surreptitious wink.

“Oh, was this a house of ill repute?” I asked, trying to fathom the comings and goings on at a laundromatt-cum-den of iniquity smack bang in the middle of the ‘burbs.  At the very least, the establishment’s sheets would be clean.  But would the hum and whirl of the machines be conducive to such illicit activities?  Or perhaps, that was the point?

“No, I think it was more non-washing white powder related activity,” came the response.

Whatever its former purpose, the cafe is a cosy urban oasis with lovely walls of exposed brick, in a wide, wide surburban sea.  And the coffee’s pretty good too.


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