Tail end of lunch fanfare—not For the Common Man—boosting the trade in Block Arcade early afternoon. As usual the Tea Room full; the other shops vacant as usual, awaiting the very few select and discerning customers that keep the operations ticking over.
Out on Collins the Novotel spread a faded red carpet longways beside the gutter. Dangerous the other way for the passers-by. In their vaudeville uniforms, bellhops awaiting the patrons, larking a little in muted tones. (No taxi whistling here as over at Langham’s on Southgate.)
At the truncated City Square on Swanston corner, down near the bottom of the fountain, the tubby hound had attracted tourist cameras, a colour un-co tubby chap himself pointing a long, expensive lens down at ground level.
Surprising posture when you haven't noticed the re-positioning of the little armoured bronze cur. (Or has he always been there?)
Possibly Russian like the photographer, a couple of lasses stepping down from the raised platform in Georges, tall and short; early thirties. Hair up with knee length boots; the other a long sheer scarf, smiling at her companion’s concern for her footfall.
To date they refrain from the background music for the pictures of the Japanese quake and tsunami. Grieg or Shostakovic had been expected; Gorecki had been done to death.
Military choppers continuing in passes along Bourke hill through the afternoon, momentarily unnerving.
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