Author: Rob

Mist again this morning.

From the rambling unpleasant noise of near to the Carillion, over Kings Ave bridge, around the old parliament house full of regard for my magnificent old mate Tom, back across the bridge and up to the Commonwealth Dept of Defence building in which I sold newspapers as a primary school kid, petrified.

I’d get up in the dark, as I did for the milk run, and freeze on the Malvern Star over to Campbell shops, where, I was trying to remember, I must have jumped in a van as the newsagent owner drove me and others to our sales spots.

Mine was in the foyer of the building photographed, I’m sure, but the foyer was bigger then.

Customers entered the building, just after sunrise onwards, or came down and emerged from the lifts, and for every one I had to get the correct cash change. They seemed busy, so the pressure was on.

They were to me very sophisticated and uniquely capable.

I hated it.

Carillion that serves no function than to beautify, break the mold and inspire; block hard lines of a building of national importance to express its reliability and stability, in the High Court; flags of various nations to place you, the viewer, the participant, in world consciousness, consideration and affairs: and grass and curves and colours and lake – and space.

Here this minute.