Twilight. Peel Street.

Pulsing with purpose. Chirps off-stage. Little eruptions of colour, of movement. Bars and secret nooks and tiny eateries.

It and Leigh Street run off Hindley Street and these evolving clusters also show Adelaide’s bold new face. Not just the ever-sprouting steel and glass towers or modern bowl of the cricket ground. The fizz is affirming.

Claire instructed me kindly to ‘walk down the street’ — and I did, trusting her logistics. Stepping along the gray pedestrian lane, a voice called out to me. I know this better than a Beatles’ song.

The sky stretches upward as it can in late August, promising rebirth. It’s crisp — pyramidal heaters guard the doorway.

I’ve been summoned to a bar called Bckyrd. I gather wine and beer. We sit. It’s the bubble to which I’ve pinned my week — Claire’s hand warm like a winery fireplace.

As a linguistic device, Bckyrd appeals to me. It’s an example of consonantal abbreviation and is a marketing tool. Think of Tumblr, Flckr, or the Primal Scream album, XTRMNTR. Also known as disemvoweling (Freddy Krueger areas) or graphological deviation (worrying if suggested by your proctologist). Drop one of these terms into the chat when you’re next at the footy club.

Fairy lights above. Open sky. Three levels of Bckyrd, but we stay grounded. Can a bckyrd really have three stories?

Exchanging thoughts, little prayers to each other. Conversation like Sunday tennis — parabolic lobs, wayward shots, long rallies.

It’s a heartening hour. Tonight I’m Mcky Rndll. Vowels gone. Age gone. Almost.

See — now I feel edgy. Influential.