at the end of the tunnel

The times are troubled. I hope there is light you-know-where.

Lady Bountiful

There is a scary-looking homeless man who hangs out near the steps to my building. He has a very rough face and tattoos on the palms of his hands. I decided I didn't want to be scared every time I had to pass him, so one day I stopped to talk to him. His name is Vince & he's not even slightly scary. He says "Shout me a drink love?" and I give him coins if I have them. Once, when I hadn't see him for a while, I asked him where he'd been. "Did you miss me love?" he asked. I have often told friends what a gentleman he is as he always stands up when we talk. This morning, when I stopped to say hello & give him some change, I had a realisation. He stands up to put the coins in his pocket.

little victory

After you play Rooball (under-sevens soccer), you get a strawberry flavoured Chuppa Chup, even if your team has lost 11 to 1. At least, that's how it works in Townsville, Far North Queensland.

every time I've ever been in a Police station, for Joey Polanski (because he asked)

Firstly: When I was 18 I was at a wild party which degenerated into a bit of a brawl. A manboy in front of me ducked a punch, which connected with my face. Down I went! At the Police Station they asked me to identify a 'suspect'. Other than skin colour, the man they showed me looked nothing like my assailant. It was in fact a Police Officer. Nonetheless, Punch-o the Puncher got three months in prison.

Second-hand: As a young adventurer I landed in London bouncing with excitement. On my second day there, I asked a Bobby with a tit on his head for directions. I knew where I was & where I was going, but I thought it was traditional to ask a policeman for directions. (I accosted him on the street, so this is not stricly a going-to-the-station event.)

Thirdmost: I had a show at the Edinburgh Festival. One of the cast lost his keys, so we visited the P'lice Station on the Royal Mile to make enquiries. Whilst there, I couldn't resist asking the dour-faced Desk Sergeant if Inspector Rebus was in. His face broke into a broad smile. He told me that they love the Rebus books in the Edinburgh Constabulary, and he himself had started his career at Rebus's home station.

Fourthlike: I spent a weekend in Goulburn at the Police Academy pretending to be a Very Important Person for a Close Personal Protection course. The chaps on the course had been training all week. They had to practice protecting three of us from all sorts of dangers, including some pretty nifty driving when we were 'attacked' by Bad Men on dirt bikes firing blanks at us. And these guys were strong. I'm 1.8 metres tall (about 6 foot) and I was picked up & thrown about as easily as a stick. The best part was when we left the grounds of the Academy. We took a stroll around Goulburn Mall, all of us wearing dark glasses, 'protected' by 7 be-suited, dark-glasses-wearing, curly-wire in the ear guys. We caused a sensation as the citizen of Goulburn tried to figure out who these famous people might be.

This is also the reason why I can confidently tell you that my weapon of choice is a 9mm Glock semi-automatic pistol. As part of our payment, we got an hour on the firing range. I fired a revolver, a pump action shottie and an Uzi, as well as the pistol.

Fiveness: Working at a bookshop in The Rocks area of Sydney, I was held up by a screwdriver-wielding thief at 11.30 at night. (Not nearly as much fun as a smoothly nude young man.) He ran away with the money. I went to the Rocks Police Station that night. Later that week, I went to Police Headquarters to look at photos. Though I couldn't identify the rascally robber, one of his mates turned him in & he was convicted for eighteen robberies, my shop's among them.

Six-of-the-best: Last year just before Christmas, a stupid mugger tried to take my camera. He was stupid because a) he was a scum-sucking junkie shithead, b) he didn't know enough to wear soft shoes, so I had notice of his rearward approach by the stamp of his feet on the pavement, and c) my camera strap was crosswise on my body. He grabbed the strap and pulled, so I couldn't have given it to him even if I had wanted to.

A very kind pair of constables came to my apartment, then drove me down to the Station to take my statement. The girl constable took a call on her mobile, which she rang off quickly. Recognising the strangled tone, I asked her if it was her mother. She told me she can't get her mother not to call her at work. Once she was on a raid & her mother called & was cross with her because she couldn't talk right then. Later, the young boy constable drove me back home, causing a stir as I alighted outside my building.

Finally: Coincidentally, on the morning of my last post, I went to the Station to have a Statutory Declaration witnessed. Twelve-year-old Constable Handley did the honours.

sunday 12th august

Sunday morning was crisp and lovely. The annual City to Surf run was about to get underway. More than 64,000 people would run, shuffle, walk or crawl from Hyde Park to Bondi Beach. The route bisects my beloved neighbourhood.



Here's what I liked: setting out from my building and experiencing the delicious mix of people. The competitors (elite runners with their green bibs looking focused and serious, fit second-start runners looking pleased with themselves and their blue bibs, jaunty Back-of-the-Pack amblers wearing any old thing with their yellow bibs, two slim girls in matching outfits - tiny red shorts, yellow singlets - desperately dragging on their last cigarette, the men in tutus, and of course the person in gorilla costume) mingling with the denizens of Kings Cross. Ah! The Cross. Prossies, druggies, dealers, spruikers and their clients, victims, users, sightseers. I passed one kindly lady of the night who was saying to a disappointed-looking fellow "Look, I'm happy to give you a blow-job for $60". And the tragics left over from Saturday night, wobbling forlornly on high heels. The Bourbon & Beefsteak bar was heaving at 8am with late revellers and early drinkers. Ah! The Bourbon. Any US serviceman who ever landed in Sydney from the Vietnam War on has found his way to the Bourbon eventually. I don't go there anymore, but there was a time ... Then, turning at the El-Alamein Fountain into Potts Point, where some of the most expensive real estate in one of the most expensive cities in the world can be found.



Kings Cross is really just one short street, from the Coca-Cola sign to the Fountain. Visitors to Sydney remark with disappointment at its size. But, my friends, what worlds are held therein. I have lived in it and on its outskirts for lo these many years. I danced at The Manzel Room; I waitressed at trashy dives, and was once fired for "talking to the customers"; I've drunk at the Rex, The Bourbon, Arthur's, Barons, After Midnight, The All-Nations Club; I've eaten at The Astoria, The Cosmopolitan, and that falafel place; I've partied with musicians at the Sebel Townhouse and at The Cauldron; I've seen the famous Les Girls; I've changed my library books; I've visited the Police Station; I've caught the train, the bus, the taxis; I've laughed in its streets and apartments and cafes, I've cried and been consoled. I do love my neighbourhood. But it is a filthy skank hole some days, especially in the morning light, and Sunday morning's whirling mix was very Kings Cross. There's a t-shirt "Kings Cross: smack in the heart of Sydney" that says it all. Or most of it anyway.

And just for Pil - some New South Welsh Policemen - the best that money can buy.

meanwhile ...

... in Canberra last month, this tree harked back to Autumn.

Spring is sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where the birdies is?

No sooner have I shaken out my Winter coat & scarf, than the Summer fashions are in the shops, or "instore" as the hideous neologism has it. Meanwhile, a little tree by a beach in South Australia thinks it is Spring.

innocent bystander

Michaelangelo Optica hanging by the Darlo Bar at the Royal Sovereign trying a spot of insouciance. Innocent bystander? I think not.