Did you catch the southern lights, in real life or in your socials, where Angela from down the road posted a blurry photo and said something like: 'it was better in real life?' because at best, the sky was slightly coloured green or pink, with none of the streaks of green you'd dreamt of? I did have to laugh at an AI photo that showed the northern lights with the green lights shaped to read: 'FUCK OFF TRUMP'.

I get the thrill. People want an experience. Then, they want to share about it so people see they've had an experience. They get out their phones and jostle other people with phones in beach carparks looking south (because we're in the southern hemisphere - you with me, northerners?) or other photographers perfectly poised.

Not long after dark, Guvvos carpark, Great Ocean Road.

I do sound cynical. I guess I have something to compare it to - the good old days of '89 or maybe '90 where we didn't even know it was coming, because we didn't have social media and the news alerting us on our phones that we'd be able to see the biggest solar storm in years. In fact, we only saw it because we were putting the bottles out after work one night - I worked in a bar and restaurant, and it was one of the jobs after closing - and there it was, the light show I'd never forget. We wandered over to the beach carpark and stood in awe. There was only a handful of people that even saw it - one was my uncle, who was geeky enough to keep track of solar events and the weather because he imagined he could create a surf prediction app (he was ahead of his time).

I don't think we even thought about sharing it with anyone in the way we do now. It wasn't on our minds. It was something beautiful that we were bloody lucky to see, but how could you truly explain what you saw? These days we see wonder packaged as such on a daily basis, and we're so tired of it that we now have to get AI to make it even more unbelievable.

Imagine if I'd had a shitty five year old Oppo in 1990.

I felt a glimmer of magic again on Tuesday night, standing on the edge of the sea, the smell of tea tree and salt thick in the air, and the smoky sweep of the larger magellan cloud shot through with stars, including the pot, which Jamie called Orion, until I reminded him we were in Australia mate, and none of that - it's most definitely 'the pot', or at a pinch 'the saucepan'. I was snuggled into Jamie's side, me with pajamas and a puffer jacket on and him with his big comfy fleece.

But it was summer in Australia, 2026, and every car park was full of happy snappers, of kids in pajamas excited to see the show, of wannabe star photographers, of travellers in vans for instagram shots, of old men and women hoping for one last side of shimmer. I tried not to be annoyed. My hips were hurting something shocking and I was tired and the lights weren't that spectacular. I wanted bed.

I wanted 1990 back.

I wanted the curious wonder, the magic you discover yourself by accident, the joy that no one tells you to find. Maybe that's what all these carpark folk were feeling, I don't know. Who am I to take that away from them?

We drove up a bush track and saw it through the trees, for a bit. Better. Jamie was happy as he did see the shimmer. I started doubting that I'd seen what I'd seen back then. Back then, I didn't need a phone to see it, or a camera. It would have been madness to even think about going to find something to capture it.

Probably the best photo of the night

I texted my old boss who owned the bar I worked at. He lives in Bali now with his wife, just having retired from FIFO. Oh yes, he remembered, the brilliance of it, the brightest, the swathes of shimmering light, like all the gods were dancing.

Ah, he said, the good old days.