Sunday in a small town in the wheatbelt. Crisp morning, not much above freezing overnight, and as the sun rises there's just a hint of spring in the air.
I had a few little things to do today, and before heading out I paused for a while at this simple picture of reflected domestic bliss. Dappled sun through trees, warm blanket on bed, feline contentment.
Then off I go, striking forth from my cosy den of warm domesticity to perform an errand or two. Most of the shops in town are closed on Sundays, but the ones I needed are not. I love Sunday mornings in town, there's hardly anyone about, just folks headed for the hardware or the video store or maybe the chemist, and the occasional perplexed tourist wondering why our town closes up on Sundays when the neighbouring, more tourist-oriented towns only 20 minutes either side are all arms-wide-open.
So it was especially odd to see this on the main street:
Behold, a man clad head-to-toe in lurid green lycra, posing for traffic and doing weird, slow gyrating dance moves. On his own. For no apparent reason.