Rain in Bondi

The next bar is only two streets away, across Bondi beach, but we are waiting for a cab.
"Can't we walk?" I suggest. My injured foot is slowly but surely coming back together again: impatient to make up for lost time.
The idea of a walk however, is met with unfriendly expressions.
"I'm not going out in that rain." someone says.
It is not raining, not properly. There is moisture coming from the air, yes, but it is no more than a moderately heavy drizzle at most. I find myself in the curious position of being proud of my nation's weather. We have proper rain, I think.
As we continue waiting, we are joined in the doorway by other people who also regard the weather with mortification and retreat hastily under the shelter of the bar's foyer. Mobile phones emerge, taxis are summoned.
Taxis must thrive in this weather, I think.
Most of the people waiting seem to have spent the morning on the beach, they are armed with towels and swimming gear. Why they should actively run to get themselves wet in the sea but express horror at the prospect of walking in the rain is probably not worth discussing without more unfriendly expressions.
It is Anzac day, a public holiday devoted to paying respect to the servicemen who fought in wars and campaigns from World War II onwards. The morning saw a procession pass through town past swarms of applauding observers waving Australian flags and cheering, the afternoon gives way to less sober reflection in every sense of the word.
"Australians don't usually drink so early," Clayton had informed me, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the bar. An improvised game of Two-Up was being played behind us, a traditional Anzac Day activity, it involves gambling against the outcome of two tossed coins, which does not sound much, but the volume and energy it afforded was impressive.
"Not like the English, anyway." Clayton continued, "We're just not used to it here."
There is an irony, perhaps, that a day of rememberence should be marked with the consumption of the sort of intoxicants whose side-effects include memory loss, but again, unfriendly expressions might be expected if this were discussed out loud.
Three taxis turn up at once, like vultures descending on a carcass. All are pre-booked by other parties.
"Are you table twenty-seven?" One asks.
We exchange glances and agree that we are indeed table twenty-seven.
The cab takes off along the sea-front, clouds gather over the surf and the beach looks even more like Weymouth than it did on my last visit.
"What if," someone says "The real table twenty-seven was a party of ex-servicemen?"
The cab lapses into a guilty silence which lasts approximately two minutes.