This post first appeared on 25 August 2004. I’ve retrieved it from the earlier version of this blog because I’ve just written a little stanza recording my wildly inaccurate memory of the incident it describes.
In Balmain after work tonight, I witnessed an impromptu performance by Colin Friels.
A traffic cop was strolling along Darling Street checking the parking meters, notebook in hand. I had just seen a woman illegally parked outside Oportos toot her horn to alert her chicken-buying companion, and then back out just as the notebook-bearer was making his shark-like approach.
About ten metres further along, I walked past the talented Mr Friels at the exact moment he spotted danger. He turned to the little girl beside him, say eight years old, and said, in rich theatrical tones that reminded me of The Children’s Hour of the 1950s: ‘Come on. There’s a man with a yellow coat, and he’s going to do dreadful things.’ And the two of them set off in a modified sprint, plastic bags swinging.
As far as I could tell they made it to their car in time – the last I saw of them they were dodging around a large truck that was turning into one of those narrow streets that run off Darling, easily overtaking their public-revenue-collecting nemesis. ‘And no paparazzi in sight,’ I said to the smiling woman who was inserting coins in a meter near me.
Me fail? I fly! 