Mystery Pub was on Sunday afternoon at the Marion Hotel, but it’s mostly been at the working week’s end. There are cultural and atmospheric contrasts between the timeslots with Friday about dusty boots and yelling men in orange set among menacing urgency.

However, Sunday’s often a day for family functions in the pub and we chat with a former colleague attending his niece’s farewell. She’s eighteen and going to Sydney to study dance.

Prior to this monthly excursion Claire and I made our annual investigation of the Brighton Sculptures. Along the esplanade is a row of wrought and welded stuff, made from glass, timber, and metals. We’re gently prodded by the creations, and each comes with a description penned by the artist. One read:

The artwork embodies an environmental consciousness, highlighting the interplay between human and more-than-human temporalities within the material world

I am concerned that this asks too much of corrugated iron.

Prior to this we visited the Glenelg Air-Raid shelter. As with many of these in Adelaide it’s situated by an oval. We learned that during WW2 the ovals were a mustering point. If required people would then have been bussed out of the city and on such dark trips were permitted only one type of sandwich: cheese or egg. It was instructively sombre.

Prior to that I watched San Francisco beat Green Bay in the NFL Divisional Playoffs. While I’m a Denver Broncos supporter I’ve affection for the 49ers as they were great when I was a kid. I recall the stentorian commentator Pat Summerall and his iconic, ‘Montana……Rice……touchdown.’

Prior to this I ran six kilometres to the Adelaide Sailing club and back. It’s hosting the World Regatta Championship and I was disappointed to not spot bobbing on the briny the Caddyshack tub, Flying Wasp, or the yacht, Unsinkable 2.

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Saturday evening was balmy, so we plonked our beanbags on the back lawn for The Ringer podcast on the terrific film, The Big Chill. Sprawling over 120 minutes it included astute dialogue on the opening scenes of Alex’s funeral and wake. This sequence, soundtracked by the Rolling Stones’ classic, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ is my favourite song use in a movie.

Earlier we slipped into the cinema for The Holdovers, and I liked the protagonist’s line, ‘life’s like a hen-house ladder: shitty and short.’

Earlier still, one of the year’s smallgoods highlights was the annual running of the (time-honoured) Bung Fritz Cup at Gawler in the uproarious timeslot of 1.02pm. The numbers were: 1, 6, 2. But you probably knew this.

Yet even earlier around the Patawalonga I undertook my weekly parkrun (#51) and thought I did well although the official clock indicated a muddling amble.

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The Marion Hotel’s heart is The Garden. It features a large tree, and we do like a beer garden built around a tree. There are a few pubs which claim this although I was dismayed that the Broady’s beloved frangipani tree was felled recently due to ill-health (the tree, not the publican). These charming surrounds reminded me of Australian Crawl’s, ‘Beautiful People’ with its lyric, ‘the garden’s full of furniture, the house is full of plants.’

On a wall were two bedsheet-sized TV screens and surprisingly both were dark. In a pub when was the last time you saw this? However, undistinguished music was bleating rowdily, and I finally guessed it was Keith Urban’s Greatest Hit, on repeat.

In a Mystery Pub first, we had the dinner in The Garden with a veggie patch bowl for Claire and a beef schnitzel for me. Our flashing buzzer nagged us to collect our meals immediately and slightly aggrieved, I wondered if it was akin to self-checkout at a supermarket. Frowning, I vowed to next time put through Lady Finger bananas as loose carrots.

Furthermore, will future bartenders only be apparitions? Will our pub experience devolve into humming dispensers squirting one’s beverage like a dystopian bovine teat? Swipe your details and stick a cup under an unappetising nozzle?

Is this already a thing in Japanese train stations?

After a weekend of cultural immersion, we then raced home for Botched.