Late nights almost invariably mean you're slow out of the blocks the following morning, and when we were finally out and about we found a steady drizzle as we set out for an extensive ramble across a section of the Melbourne cityscape.
In other circumstances, we might have been inclined to retreat, but here it was a case of Umbrellas out! and into the wild grey rather than blue yonder.
Breakfast needed to be grabbed somewhere, and in the conditions it seemed a good idea to do that straight away, and with a likely option straight across Collins Street from the Bank place lane way that seemed the way to go. Arriving in Cafe 417 we were directed to find a seat because it was table service, but after ten minutes or so, with the sole waitress on duty passing us by repeatedly without asking if we were ready to order, we headed off in search of an alternative.
The day's agenda involved a leg out to St Kilda, with a stop at the Markets near Southbank on one leg of the trip so that seemed like a logical replacement as a breakfast venue. Madam demurred, but I reckoned craft markets would attract arty types, and Sunday morning would make them inclined to eat. There must, I reasoned, be something to eat in the vicinity, and given the clientele it might be more interesting than your average sausage sizzle.
We passed by the Turkish stall at the northern end but weakened for Vietnamese omelette rolls, pork skewers, a croissant and a bagel from adjoining barbecue and bakery operations.
A loop around the craft-oriented stalls saw some earrings purchased, and a pause at a French organic nut stall yielded a packet of macadamia so that might do for late night post-Springsteen sustenance.
From there it was off to St Kilda for more market action before lunch, which came, after a lengthy prowl up and down Fitzroy Street, at Topolinos, which did the trick rather nicely.
I wasn't going to be needing too much further sustenance later in proceedings.
As we headed back to base it was obvious the Bureau of Meteorology had the prognosis (morning showers, clearing) pretty right, and I got in a three-quarter of an hour break before it was time to head off for Show #2 just after four o'clock.
Madam headed off for a spot of shopping around Docklands, and as her tram departed I was approached by a couple around my age who were looking for the right mode of transport to Rod Laver Arena. A quick question about their intentions revealed they were off to Bruce, and were operating under a misapprehension.
Which was fine. A bit of gentle ribbing and a description of the previous night's show took care of the waiting time before the Route 70 appeared. Since they were off to Gate One (I was headed over the other side to Gate Six) it seemed like a good idea to act as a sort of guide. They were, after all, headed in the same direction, but I was going a bit further.
Up in the Nosebleeds