It was a cold, windy afternoon. The day had been interesting.

A terminal hot-water-heater failure in the middle of the night before.. Standing looking at the shower head gushing forth frigidity to splash against the wall. Standing, looking, unable to summon the courage to take a freezing cold shower. In the end settling for a quick all over splash (to the pleasant accompaniment of a great deal of expletives) and a quick hair rinse.

Trudging into a headwind next to a fenced off golf-course and a busy road; the gentle tugging of the turbulence behind the trucks thundering past. Waiting for a gap in the traffic. Pausing in the middle of the road (not for long, honestly. A minute, maybe two) to send an SMS (or two or three) before moving on.

So. What staggeringly profound things have occurred to you today?

The road behind, the path ahead, the nature-strip, the kids on their trampoline; "Hey! Man in black!", shrill voices dopplering. The maroon milk crate, artistically balanced on the street sign. "Angle parking only"

On the grass

There, see it?

On the grass. Sitting there, innocent, nonchalant, innocuous. Minding it's own and nobody else's business.

A convolution of steel and wood, sinuous curves and lines. A tool, an implement.

It's a potato masher. One of those hand held wire things with which you pummel the unsuspecting potato into mushy oblivion. Hardly anything to worry about. Unusual, yes. As a kitchen implement lying on the ground outside, it's something of a rarity. Not something you'll find on Letterman's Top Ten.

Tonight's Top Ten - Kitchen implements found on the side of the road. Number Ten: A knife! Number . . .

472, Express to Williamstown Rd., oiling its noisy way down the road, scattering leaves, birds, and a dog. Running along the opposite footpath. Small, fluffy, reddish brown, looking pretty pleased with itself. One of those little mop things you're never sure is alive until it moves. Running. Run, Lola, Run! I wonder if it's running with $100,000? A blue commodore pulls into the driveway ahead. The dog slows, stops, uncertain. A plump 30 something woman steps out of the car, stands, hands on hips, glaring something nasty. The dog looks down. Shamefaced. Slowly crawls forwards. Striding , she scoops up the dog and places it on her shoulder of all places. "I told you not to run away. It's bathies time!" Entreatied for help by the forlorn silence of the dogs eyes, I can only sympathise. I hate bathies.

Damn you man and your treachery! See my plight! You have the power to end this! . . .

Kicking acorns along the ground. Skip, bounce, clang, bounce. Kinda spongy things, they bounce pretty far. Turn the corner, skirt the puddles, watch a kid carrying his bike down the road, chased by another kid on a skateboard. Eh. The supermarket, the ritzy new entrance to the traditionally impoverished community store. The floor is so cold, even through my shoes. Butter, milk, Aero bar for the walk home. Pay the lady, don't catch her eye, don't say a word. Stalk out.

The pale horse meets us all one day.

Back past the puddles, the kids are laughing with each other on the side of the road, throwing stones at the street signs. Back around the corner. Back down the road.

There. On the grass.

Do you see it?

The potato masher is gone.