We have recently had two weeks of soaking wet weather with constantly gloomy skies. The garage flooded and the yard turned into a lake with all shoes and slip-ons rendered a sodden mess within one short hop and step. But yesterday we awoke to a sea of blue and the warm ambience of sunshine. It seems that autumn weather has returned to its normal pattern, or maybe not.

On Saturday we took Tom to the city (over many loud complaints) to attend the Grand Thai Festival in Tumbalong Park. The clouds parted for the short time we were there and we strolled around the many marquees that had been erected. At one we met up with the guys from the Thai Welfare Association, busy fund-raising. I will have three students for my English beginners class Tuesday week. A good start.

Last week was a tale of two birthdays. Tom turned 11 last Monday and Ann turned ?*&% last Thursday. There was quite a lot of cake-eating, for Tom requested a Drake-themed topping on his creation. If you don't know who Drake is, or what an OVO owl looks like, then you are forgiven. The former is a pop/rap artist and the latter is his merchandising symbol, as best I can make out. Our local bread shop did a great job with both the baking and the artwork.

Ann had her cake (and ate it too) last night when we went to dinner at her friend Tuk's house in Rhodes. We had been to the Wat in Annandale earlier in the day and shared a communal lunch with other congregants, which was delicious. Later in the day, we caught the train to Rhodes to spend time with Ann's friends from work.

Tuk, who is married to a soldier in the Australian army, had made a gorgeous spread of Thai dishes, most of which you will never find in your average Thai establishment. Moscato, Thai sweets from Two Doors and a chocolate cake capped off a great night.

Tonight I watched a preview of the upcoming Grand Sumo Tournament, which will be held in Osaka. It is around this time that I begin to get quite excited about the event and I thank my lucky stars that NHK is broadcasting the highlights daily. Is it really 12 years since I actually attended a live basho in Osaka?

Tomorrow's opening day features the newly-minted Yokozuna Kisenosato, promoted after his tournament win in January. Will he win back-to-back or lose himself in the nerves that inevitably arise from his elevation? Can Hakuho overcome his injuries? Or Harumafuji? Who else will rise from the pack?

I happened on a blog by the Romanian poet, Clelia Ifrim. Amongst many other things, she writes haiku. One particular selection, a series written in the wake of the Tohoku Earthquake and Tsunami (2011) grabbed my attention. She writes with great sensitivity and imagination. Here are a few from her page.

Evacuation –
a man stays at the window
with the birds’ shadow

Radiation leak –
the clappers of the wind chimes
tinkling in the night

The Lost Children’s Day –
fly, fly paper crane and bring
a present for them!

Yellow butterfly
on a numbered grave —
I love you, unknown child

Drowned children’ s souls –
a turtle dove of waters
guides them through the night

Street vendor – he finds
among the ruins of his house
the nest of swallows

Bottom of ocean –
a long file of shadows waits
for a boat of home

Sound of stethoscope –
the name of young doctor’s wife
among the lost ones

Not a voice or sound
but this moon path on the waves –
fishermen’s village

six years on

the blossoms returning
folks revisit their old haunts,
listen for the sea

The second of Basho's travel journeys in the book I am currently reading (though it occurs chronologically earlier than the first) finds him travelling in the company of one, Chiri. He has no possessions or provisions with him, "entering emptiness under the midnight moon." This is Basho quoting a 'Chinese sage.' It is autumn, and his bones are "weather-beaten." Very early on they encounter a two-year boy, who is unaccountably alone by the side of a river. They mourn his fate. I write:

finding a child
abandoned by an autumn stream
the poet's heart melts

I really like this short narrative, which seems more at ease than Narrow Road and is filled to the brim with haiku. He writes poems for people he meets, finds his brothers in his old village home, visits ruined temples and tombs. He reflects upon his declining vigour, that he was "prepared to make this long journey even if it meant ending as bones exposed in some field." Not many of us set out with such a view.

While we've lived our lives
they've survived to still blossom
these old cherry trees

Yesterday I went to visit my cousin Ben at the RPA Hospital. I was surprised when about half-way through a conversation my mum and brother Michael walked in, though it probably cheered Ben quite a lot. It is hard these days for my mum to make this kind of journey. We couldn't spend a lot of time with him since he was tired out from the operation so we three adjourned to the city, whereupon finding a park (always fiendishly difficult on a Sunday), we had a coffee in the QVB.

I have often had a take away from the formerly named Bar Cupola (now Kikki), but never actually sat down at a table. The building was bursting with shoppers and tourists and the cafe seating is in the midst of a public thoroughfare, making it an ideal place to sit and watch people stroll by. Ann was just finishing work so she joined us for this happy snap.

poor drowned bee
my kickboard gently receiving you,
in autumn rain

There was a time when Australian politics was a reasonably stable thing, a rather safe bet. Parties elected leaders who lasted for at least the term of a parliament. Prime Ministers were given the helm until they retired (R.G.Menzies) or lost an election (almost everybody else). Sitting Prime Ministers were rarely challenged, the consequence of which was thought to be electoral death.

In the last dozen years though, there has been a change, with the top job flipping every couple of years or so. This is where we are now. The current Liberal/National Party Government is entering a renewed period of instability because the former (toppled) PM is agitating against his successor, Malcolm Turnbull. The pugilistic Mr Abbott, having wrecked his own ship of state upon the rocks of hubris and incompetence, is now attaching himself like a barnacle to the current (foundering) vessel. But enough of this nautical nonsense.

It strikes me as obvious that Turnbull will have to meet Abbott upon his own ground in order to see him off. My suggestion is to give the ex-PM a good shirtfronting at a time and place to be agreed with a full press corps in attendance. While Abbott claims to be a bit of a shirtfronting specialist, meaning he talks a big game, he appears to falter in the follow through. Just ask the Russian President.

We could do worse than a little public shirtfronting.

Below: An artist's impression of the Tony Abbott and the Malcolm Turnbull. Narratives interchangeable.