The solitary old festooned and bejewelled Arab or Greek slow-stepping the pavement in Flinders Lane. Long pointed polished shoes almost tripping him up, poppy-red flower button-holed in his jacket. Clipped beard and crowned with royal blue flat-cap, neater and more pedantic for his city jaunt. The Smith Street grunge dive among the youthful hipsters was his usual haunt, cigar puffing at an outdoor table without raising his eyes or looking out. Savings or inheritance. Once or twice he has sported some kind of jodhpurs which could only have come from the family trunk. The Levant and nothing else (ignoring the hint of gypsy in the silver and gold).
South-side the Grand Prix carnival has most of the stands erected, the barriers only needing a lick of tyre-black. Before lunch the sea plane joy-flight over the water at Port Melbourne made deceptive pelican curves. Through the evening at least two dozen passes from the paired choppers back and forth between Laverton and the CBD. Solo sorties dangerous no doubt in the hot zones.
Brit, American and French petroleum have brokered what kind of split with the Benghazi opposition post-Gaddafi? Wikileaks where are you?
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