Sacha was pleased and relieved with the way Rona received her present. She'd never been particularly adept at giving people gifts: when she actually remembered, it typically took her a long time to decide on something. (Of course, this was precisely why her gifts were inevitably well-received.) In fact, Rona was so delighted that she said Sacha could take the afternoon off - Sacha baulked at this: as if it was a real job! - and insisted (accompanied by the icy glares of several of the magazine's other contributors) on at least making a start on her column. After all, as she pointed out to Rona, the thing did have to be written; Rona assented that yes, this was correct - although as she pointed out in turn, Si's editorials were becoming so bloated lately that in time there wouldn't be room for much else in the magazine anyway.

As it happened, Sacha managed to get a rough first draft of her column written down fairly quickly - and then she glanced out of the window, and realised that if she printed off a copy of what she'd written she could take it outside and work on it in the fresh air. Well, fresh-ish: she recalled the crisp, hill-cooled air of Canberra at this time of year. But still, outside would be better than inside today. Not that it was particularly warm or sunny: but it was pleasantly cool without, to her winter-bred skin, being unpleasantly cold; and yet from experience she knew that it was below the threshold of what people here in Melbourne seemed to regard as "too cold to sit outside" - so if she went somewhere, like a café or a park, she was guaranteed of finding a seat outside. She liked to feel the wind on her face.

She picked up her draft from the printer and folded it into her pocket, then stretched her shoulders and permitted herself a smug look around the office at the other writers all working (or shirking) hard; then she strode towards the doorway, stopping to let Rona know:

"I'm heading off for the day. Gonna finish this off at home or something. See you later."

"Okay, mate." Rona grinned up at her, and Sacha disappeared down the stairs.

She made her way back to Fitzroy, shaking her head in disbelief at the people who were walking the streets in their tightly wrapped scarves and their winter coats: it couldn't be less than 15 degrees and the wind wasn't particularly sharp. Walking through the back-streets of Fitzroy warmed her up to a level where she felt she could sit comfortably outside: upon leaving the office and stepping outside she hadn't been entirely sure, but now she was. She hoped this moment of uncertainty didn't mean that she was acclimatising. She finally arrived at Brunswick Street. She noted with amusement, and then delight, that overnight somebody had scrawled a message in coloured chalk on the footpath: it stretched for several hundred metres, from Alexandra Parade all the way south of Johnston Street. The cramps in the hand of whoever had written it must be horrific.

She found a pleasant-looking café and took a seat: when a shivering waitress came out to take her order she asked for a long black - another concession to this new city she found herself in: she drank much more coffee here than she ever had in Canberra.

Suddenly the idea of working on her column was not particularly appealing - instead she settled back into her chair and watched the city pass her by: a pair of teenage punks, all spiky hair and badges for bands that had broken up before the two kids had even been born, walked past laughing and mischievously smoking cigarettes; a short woman checking the change slots of every parking machine with a bored expression on her face; a tall, skinny man, all tight jeans and thin, straight legs and pale skin and dark hair; a middle-aged man walking his dog; a group of school children eating ice-cream - also two well-dressed young women eating ice-cream and stopping frequently to point at shop window displays; a man dressed in a leather jacket and leather everything else, greeting strangers loudly and exuberantly; three or four young people, men and women, carrying musical instruments from the back of a beaten-up car and hauling it in through the door of a pub.

A gust of wind picked up as Sacha lifted her cup of coffee to her lips: it blew the aroma of the coffee strongly and unexpectedly into her nostrils, and in the cool air her face glowed red and healthy. She shut her eyes with delight, grinned to herself, and parted her lips slightly to take a sip of the hot drink. She was starting to enjoy living here.