Young
men in first dinner suits and untidy bowties, young women in over-the-top gowns
– soon Gala Night became Galah Night. Such grey formality pink champagne
lightened into teenage tomfoolery. Once I slept under the stars in a paddock in
New South Wales. In the morning hundreds of galahs were in the air, on the
ground, and along the road where I hitched before breakfast. They only come to
Melbourne in those numbers during drought. I watch them in the April parks,
hopping about for seed. They’re Wildean in grey frockcoats and rose waistcoats,
likely to make galahs of us all.
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