Scarpering is no longer an arrow in my quiver

Gingerly, I descended from The Bulwalk down to The Scarp, which reminded me of lanes around Saint Andre-de-Roquepertuis, just north of Avignon. By now, I had walked for 90 minutes [but in reality not very far], and was looking for a walkway on my right to take me back up to Edinburgh Road. I found it, and turned to snap The Scarp, looking west, which is the second shot. A Scarp, by the way, is the inner wall of a moat. The outer wall of a moat, is the counterscarp.

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly

I stepped around, and behind, the bloke with his trews hanging so low they exposed his jockeys, and lent back against the light post, deep in the shadow of Perry Lane. The afternoon lengthened, I could hear the stores clanging closed for the day. Another long weekend done; more tyre-kickers than shoppers. All hands, no pockets. I sensed her presence, rather than saw her. Maybe it was the half-gurgled intake of air, perhaps the stench of day-old beer, strained through stale sweat.


Buy the worst house in the street, but avoid walking the dingiest lane in the suburb, even a suburb like this: trendy, expensive, sought after. She kept pushing her matted hair from her slits-for-eyes, not taking them off me. Or my camera. Instinctively patting my back-pack, I stepped closer to the wall. and focussed.

'Don't touch dem beer bottles,' she wheezed.

A lurk of lanes

Trickling down from Oxford Street to Five Ways, there is a lurk of lanes secreted into the escarpment. Being raised on 'Swallows and Amazons' and assorted adventures of The Famous Five and The Secret Seven, I am inclined to give my fevered imagination free rein as I wind my way homeward.

A corned-beef and pickles chap

Sitting lightly in the palm of his hand, the briefcase added to his feeling of self-worth. He could smell the Dubbin that he had scraped into its creases the previous night before the hearth, with Bach’s 3rd ‘cello suite oozing out of the gramophone. He felt blessed by the early morning starts: his chance to catch the whiff of a new day. He knew that inside his briefcase, tucked into a pocket, was his lunch of corned beef and pickles on country-grain. Neatly wrapped in grease-proof paper, and slipped into a plain brown paper bag. He always ate early, while sipping a mug of steaming Ceylon black, going over the figures, yet again, comparing Mr Simpson’s ledger with his own mechanised version, searching for the discrepancy.

To have and to have not

Hemingway published his novel in 1937. Harry is an essentially good man, out of his depth. He lacks the moral courage to cut through, instead going with the flow. His life spirals beyond his own control.

It is a chicken and egg situation. A nature versus nurture connundrum. A set of circumstances rarely resolved by a 'you made your own bed, lie in it' response.

A mote of beauty

Past the fallen bougainvillea blossoms, way down the lane ... what is that?

The yellow letter box

Hayden Place, Darlinghurst; opposite The Garvan Institute, up from St Vincents Hospital

The value of the aimless wander

Begg Lane & Perry Lane in Paddington

Outdoor dunnies

Another airing of the outdoor dunnies on Lombard Lane, half a block east of Glebe Point Road, running down toward Marlborough Street. The previous post was a sedate early morning scene. Wanting, this time, to capture the riotous tumble, I wended my way through during my mid-day break.

Switching to autopilot whilst I galivant around southern Tasmania for 10 days, returning Monday 5th October.

Street & Lane: Lombard

Part of my morning walk: east of Glebe Point Road, between Bridge Road and Ferry Road.