yesterday boynton confirmed her theory about this suburb being a little warped
(temporally). The cream brick in weak blue winter sunshine , the empty streets with slow moving traffic, the man at the bus stop who chatted in an old dialect before chirping: here it is- right on time, as the bus pulled up, and nodded farewell before alighting. A sort of time travel. As she descended down the boulevard, the city suddenly rose like a panoramic postcard, and over the bridge it was straight back into full on grunge, with cartoon factory roofs, bits of public domestic and raging roads. Even though she misses the street fest, she's developing a bit of a taste for backwater - where the op shop women mutter low: I always keep an eye on any penguins coming in...as long as the wild nostalgia is never noted on sales boards.