Something strange, in the neighbourhood...

I was washing the dishes just now when Pat called out from the backyard, "I think I can hear a marching band!"

I went out to join him, only to hear the faint drone of a tuba cutting through the mower-noise from next door. Then - a whole cacophony of brass, wafting in with the breeze. It was strange. We thought perhaps it was a school fete, but really, who has a marching band apart from American high schools and the Salvo's?

The sound was getting chirpier, and louder, and so we went to the front door to see what was going on, not thinking that there would actually be a marching band marching down our street. There was, in fact, a marching band marching down our street, ten metres from the front door. A marching band consisting of three hundred little old Italian men and ladies, the men first, wearing sailor hats and hoisting a golden effigy of Jesus, the women gossiping and traipsing after them.

It was surreal. A few men - the ringleaders - were wearing pirate-style hats with plumes. There was no-one under fifty in the procession. They watched us watch them, pointing at us occasionally, as we tried to keep it together. Jesus swayed in the breeze. They put Him down a few houses from ours, in the middle of the road, had a smoke, then lifted him up again, gilt-laced and benevolent, as they headed, with police escort at snails pace, towards the Masonic Temple at the end of our street.

And then, just as quickly, the noise was gone. Pat and I went inside to drink tea and talk about our weekends. The dishes continued to dry. Just another Sunday afternoon.

Fuck, I love this neighbourhood.