In Fawkner park there are trees I refer to as Elephant trees- this is not their proper name- They might be Moreton Bay Figs or something -but I think the way the bark wrinkles and flaps makes them deserve this name. In a nameless shade of dark grey they form an archway as I ride to work. The light appears in tiny windows between loosely leafed branches as the bike tyres hum along the asphalt. You have to be careful because the toes of the trees have slipped underneath parts of the path and there are humps and hillocks and cracks that pneumatically end about where your fingers are as you clatter across them. More power is needed at the pedals and well oiled muscles and slightly aching knees provide the motive force. Sometimes if it’s really bright the sunlight seems to strobe through those branches like an old hand wound film, though the trees make no sound.

In the morning the grass is still freshly dewed, and diamonds of brilliance shine where the light falls. It smells fresh and new and brisque and is a great introduction to the day ahead, it gets your mind in the right place for when you sail through the doors. You’re already on top of the world and the challenge is to not let anything knock you off. Unfortunately when you get to your desk you remember the elephant in the room. He’s trying to be innocuous in the corner, his snaking trunk tucked up between his feet , but once that computer is on the bellowing begins. The stampeding feet of emails come streaming in. Mundane grey tasks are cleverly orchestrated by he who sits in the corner. The thing is of course there’s nowhere for him to poop is there? So, by the end of the day there’s a great load of stuff to shovel. The old Chinese philosopher ‘Who Flung Dung’ comes to mind . What wisdom would he dispense? Riding home having cleaned up the mess and the footprints in the butter etc etc the afternoon sun starts to soothe workday worries….