Places

Shadowing the high stone walls Locusta gathers in the woollen folds of her cape, the hood she pulls forward to better shield her auburn hair and fair skin from detection. Averting her gaze to avoid contact knowing with any utterance her Gallic accent will deceive her identity

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was the dickens of a time locating 48-49 Doughty Street, Holborn, in the London Borough of Camden.

Australian road users have little to break the monotony on long-haul trips other than counting roadkill and gawking at endless open spaces soon relegated to ‘just more scenery’.

I suggested we go back and see if he required assistance. The driver executed a tight turn and hastened back. The man, relieved, breathlessly asked, “Are you a Jew?”

The world is waking up. We have gathered. Frisson, you feel it in the air. Marching footfall loud, defiant, gathering motion sends shivers, vibrates underground, signals notice forward.

I am outraged when I hear of wilful destruction of artworks. I rejoice at the discovery of a lost masterpiece. I can’t desecrate a book by folding dog ears on a page to mark my place.

A quick backstory by way of a question. What do the glass elevators travelling outside the Skylon at Niagara Falls, the Crown on the Statue of Liberty, Sydney’s Centre Point Tower, and Brisbane’s Storey Bridge have in common? All have been the staging ground for my irrational fear of heights melt downs.