It was just another Monday morning and I was striding hurriedly down the Degraves-Flinders underpass, rushing to catch my train out to Heidelberg. I did however (albeit barely) realise that there were three buskers compared to the usual one. That thought had just flitted across my muddled, slightly grumpy morning-brain when suddenly a couple of guitars started playing and two of the three buskers began a beautiful, well-harmonised version of The Everly Brothers' classic "All I Have To Do is Dream". Before I could stop myself, I felt a big cheesy grin come upon my face. I looked up (from my highly exciting shoes) and found that the tall grumpy looking (and slow-moving guy) in front of me was looking to the source of the music with the same unabashed yet slightly-embaressed grin that was plastered on my mug.

I wanted to stop and pop a golden coin in their battered opened cases, but with my train fast approaching and the sea of harried commuters between me and them, I merely silently thanked them and carried on.

"What exactly was I thanking them for", I pondered in the subsequent train ride? Was it the beautiful rendition of a classic in an unexpected setting? Or was it the innocent memory that it conjured up, of my then-little cousin Eddie sitting by the radio and painstakingly writing all the lyrics of this particular song out so that my mum could teach him how to sing it (imagine if he had picked a Queen song!). Or maybe it was just that on a Monday morning, someone would gently remind me to Dream. To in the rush, take a couple of minutes to renew my state-of-mind with either a daydream of the future, or just to let my mind punt down the canals of Venice, and stop at a bougainvilla wreathed hotel. The lazy appreciation of it's uniqueness and sepia-toned thoughts of romance, still clear despite time, through my mind's eye.

Well, it's certainly changed my iPod playlist this morning. From indie-rock to oldies. Currently, Johnny Nash's "I can see clearly now the rain has gone". How cornily apt.