Mosman Collective’s new monthly columnist makes her debut today with a dispatch from the jacaranda crowds on McDougall Street, Kirribilli.

Known simply as “Margaret”, the 82-year-old grandmother found fame on the Crows Nest St Leonards Facebook page when she reported that Trevor, the 11-kilogram concrete gnome beside her front path for 28 years, had been changing positions, adding: “Please do not laugh. I am taking this very seriously.”

Margaret is very real, but her bio photo is not: it was created with AI, because she would like to maintain an air of mystery.

Her column is entirely tongue-in-cheek, and it runs below in her own words, unedited.

There are many things one expects to encounter on a Sunday morning in Kirribilli: a gentle harbour breeze, the occasional well-dressed gentleman walking his Labrador, perhaps a respectable number of people enjoying a coffee.

What one does not necessarily expect is a full-scale international migration of adults behaving as though a purple tree has just announced the second coming.

And yet, last Sunday, I found myself at McDougall Street, Kirribilli, where the annual jacaranda pilgrimage was well and truly underway.

I had gone with the intention of enjoying the blossoms. I left having witnessed what I can only describe as a spectacular breakdown in the relationship between human beings and basic road safety.

For the uninitiated, McDougall Street is rather lovely at this time of year. The jacarandas form a magnificent purple canopy, and I will concede that the sight is quite something. Nature, when it puts its mind to it, can be terribly good at interior decorating.

However, it would appear that the arrival of the blossoms also triggers an extraordinary transformation in the visiting public. Ordinarily sensible adults seem to abandon all judgement the moment they spot a suitable patch of purple.

I observed one woman arrive carrying what appeared to be an entire second wardrobe. She proceeded to change outfits several times beneath the jacarandas, presumably in pursuit of the perfect photograph. First a white dress, then a pink dress, then something flowing and floral. I was half expecting a lighting assistant and a production manager to emerge from the boot of her car.

Another gentleman spent a considerable amount of time crouching in the middle of the road, holding his telephone at an angle that suggested he was attempting to photograph the tree from its own perspective. I should have liked to ask whether he had considered simply looking up.

Then there were the people lying on the road.

Yes, lying on the road.

Not beside it. Not on the footpath. On the actual road.

One woman appeared to be arranging herself on the asphalt in a position that I can only assume was intended to communicate artistic vulnerability. A passing vehicle, meanwhile, was attempting to communicate something rather different through its brakes.

I must say, I admire the commitment. But if one’s pursuit of a photograph requires an oncoming motorist to reconsider their life choices, perhaps the composition has gone too far.

There were also several individuals who seemed to believe that the middle of McDougall Street was a perfectly acceptable place to conduct an extended photo shoot.

Cars approached, pedestrians scattered, and one driver looked as though he was about to abandon his vehicle and pursue a quieter life in the Blue Mountains.

I noticed one young couple taking turns photographing one another beneath the trees. Each photograph was followed by an extensive review process, involving zooming, frowning, adjusting hair, changing positions and repeating the entire exercise. At one point, I genuinely wondered whether they were documenting the jacarandas or negotiating a merger.

And the poses. My goodness, the poses.

There were dramatic gazes into the middle distance, hands delicately touching branches, backs arched at angles that would concern a physiotherapist, and at least one person who appeared to be attempting to levitate.

I am not opposed to a good photograph. I have, after all, spent many years ensuring that my better side is presented to the world. But there is a difference between capturing a beautiful moment and behaving as though you have been personally commissioned by the National Geographic Society to document the mating habits of the jacaranda.

One particularly determined visitor spent several minutes positioning herself beneath a branch, only to discover that the perfect shot required her to move approximately three centimetres to the left. Three centimetres. I have seen less negotiation involved in the purchase of a property.

I also noticed the curious phenomenon of people photographing one another photographing the trees. This raises an important question: at what point does the photograph become the attraction, rather than the thing being photographed? Are we now simply documenting the fact that we have documented something?

I fear I may need to lie down.

To be fair, the jacarandas were magnificent. Their purple blooms against the heritage homes and the clear spring sky were a reminder of just how beautiful our corner of Sydney can be. It is easy to understand why visitors come from all over to see them.

But I do wonder whether we might collectively agree on a few modest principles for next year’s season:

• The road is for motor vehicles. It is not a photography studio, yoga mat or runway.
• If you require more than two outfit changes, please consider bringing a portable change room.
• Oncoming traffic is not a supporting cast member in your Instagram content.
• A tree does not become more beautiful because you have photographed it from seventeen different angles.
• If you find yourself lying face-down on the asphalt to capture a blossom, it may be time to reassess your relationship with social media.

As I made my way home, I found myself thinking that perhaps the jacarandas are not the only things in bloom this season. Apparently, so too is the human capacity for spectacular foolishness.

I shall certainly return next year. The blossoms are worth seeing, and one must keep abreast of local affairs.

I may even bring Trevor.

Although, given his recent conduct involving twelve teaspoons, I am not entirely convinced he can be trusted near a public thoroughfare.

Until next month, dear readers, do remember: admire the flowers, enjoy the sunshine, and for heaven’s sake, keep your limbs off the road.

Gnomely yours,
Margaret.
North Shore Correspondent, Observer of People and Occasional Investigator of Garden Ornaments.