Crackers

Yesterday between the hours of 4.30 and 7 p.m. was curious to say the least.

After work I set forth to visit a friend in hospital. I left the bureau, striding down Barrack and crossing George Street. I marched down Martin Place, once named Martin Plaza (pity poor Martin ‘Mental as Anything‘ Murphy who thought it would be drole to have Martin Plaza as a nom de stage but dated himself immediately and continues to do so if he still sports that ridiculous white cowboy hat and struts along the promenade in Coogee or perhaps that was just his style for the late 90’s...)

Yes, so I was walking at a cracking pace down the Place and up, past the Cenotaph, the wacky, zany nozin’ about charity spruikers, and lots of middle-aged ladies sportin' floral sunfrocks with vavava-voom necklines. I crossed Pitt to continue my ascent when this stranger stopped in front of me and uttered the most ridiculously effusive compliments, warranted but nevertheless ott (oh welcome back 'ott'. Did you run away with 'trendy'?). Admittedly I was a somewhat dignified contrast to all that cleavage and red raw decoll – yep I was sportin’ a stripey neck to knees, a pink tutu and a giant green St Patrick's day hat. A noughties nod to the band Mother Goose. I thanked him and said he was most kind and attempted to continue the march.

He grabbed my hand , squeezed and caressed it, imploring me to meet him for a cup of coffee some time. I eventually unwrangled my hand from his grasp, looked around for Candid Cameras (kind of like “Ashton Kutcher’s Punk’d”, kidz), and bade him farewell. He then said I was a very negative (?!!) and untrusting person and with that the Impulse sans fleurs moment ended and I continued my way.

I finally got to the bus, a trifle puzzled but 'negativity' well intact, and reached Randwick Junction. As I approached the hospital I bumped into someone I had thought of the week before who I hadn’t seen for 12 years. Ain’t that a cowinkydink!! Alas it was not New York City Funk - the Sydney identity of the 90’s. Not a day passes without my thoughts turning to him. Haiku mo: New York City Funk where have you gone? Did you finally make it to the Big Apple? Or just turn into Matthew Hall?

After I’d made my lavender lady visit, during which I’d had my arm stroked continually by another visitor who stood beside me - so much tactility that afternoon I must have entered a Prozac zone for I was clearly no longer too hot to touch, I embarked on the tedious journey back to the inner west.

I walked through the delightful grime and humidity of Central's underground from Eddy Avenue to Devonshire Street tunnel, scanning the lists of names on the war memorial plaques in their handsome wooden cases along the tunnel's walls then turning my gaze to the big advertisements in one of which I espied the father of one of my brothers-in-law! There he was plastered on the wall promoting a telecommunications company and playing a suitor to Carol Raye! And no, he is not Barry Creyton.