The Sculpture Garden.

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It was a magnificent spring morning here in Canberra today, so I decided to take Juno out and get amongst it all.

Before heading off a few preparatory tasks were required. First up, take my daily spring dose of antihistamine ’cause it’s that time of the year and right now the pollen is thick on the wind. It seems every year my spring allergies get a little worse.

Yup. Rubbing the sweet bejeezus out of my itchy eyes and waterboarding myself with my own snot puts a definite damper on the day.

Next, I grabbed some slices of fresh Rye bread stacking them high with a mortar of peanut butter. Thick and smooth is how I roll.

Kelly just brought us some new environmentally friendly waxed sandwich wrapping cloth, but I could not find a piece bit enough to encapsulate my stack.. so I resorted to wrapping them in plastic cling wrap.  Um…save the world, starting tomorrow.

Slightly redeeming myself I filled my stainless steel water bottle, which remarkably I have not lost despite taking it into battle each shift in the emergency department for several years.

So. I threw all that into my backpack along with my iPhone and a good book.

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‘Cones’ by Burt Flugelman.

Finally I saddled up Juno, who was by now totally savvy to what was going on and was practically dislocating his tail in excitement.

Being a public holiday, I expected things to be crowded. My destination was the sculpture garden at the National Gallery of Australia. I have a couple of secret nooks and crannies there where I like to settle in on a sunny day just like today and persnooze (that’s when you are perusing your book and you fall asleep).

My favourite spot is a short walk from a coffee shop. There is shade. The ambience is chill. The grass is lush and soft. There is a small waterfall running just off to my right.

Persnoozing is inevitable.

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The sculpture garden itself has been open since the early 1980’s. It has an impressive collection of (very expensive) works by renowned Australian and international artists that I know absolutely nothing about such as Aristide Maillol, Emile Antoine Bourdelle, Gaston Lachaise, Mark di Suvero, Bert Flugelman, Inge King, Fujiko Nakaya, Robert Stankiewicz and Tony Coleing.

Go on ask me about art. I know nothing.

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Juno, he may not know art. But he knows what he likes.

We wondered around for a while amongst the wattle and flowering acacias checking out most out the sculptures including Antony Gormley’s life-sized maquette for Angel of the North which stands with wings spread looking out over the lake.

Juno peed on it in an expression artistic appreciation.

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Angel of the North.

At last reaching the secret nook of persnoozing as it shall now be known, Juno and I both took  long gulping drink. I wolfed down my sandwiches and Juno munched on a handful of liver treats and a chunk of fallen bread.

The sky was cobalt blue. Way high up wisps of cotton cloud. The temperature was pleasantly incubating. Voices of other people wandering the gardens rose and fell on the breeze like a soft surf.

Soon we both slept soundly.

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