Get me the Sergeant, please!

"St Kilda Police Station. Yes, the Sergeant’s desk." 

Larry scrawls the number onto the shiny, grimy phone booth wall with a carpenter’s pencil then dials with determination. 

"I want to speak with the sergeant please. No, I need to speak to the sergeant. Look, why won’t you put me through to the sergeant?" 

While the ‘annoying prick’ of a Constable plays his daily phone battle with Larry, just a heartbeat, a heartbreak away the guy and gal hipster crew dish up plates of smashed avo on sourdough (Veg) (V) dusted with dukkah served alongside deconstructed chai lattes. 

An ageing rock star - who still does it for the cool kids - saunters by with perfect sideburns on his morning trip to the 711. The AGE and perhaps the odd pack of Craven As. If you please. 

Latte constructed I watch as Larry slams the phone back in its cradle, pockets his pencil and disappears into the Acland St throng.

New Year on Blessington

The suburban bomber squad fuelled on grog and greasy kebabs careens along Barkly St, like a flock of unruly plaster ducks on a suburban lounge room wall. 

Talking shit, feeling no pain, they encounter an early morning obstacle. ‘Happy New Year my boys!’ The pack splits. 

Terry pisses unsteadily against the giant palm tree on Blessington. Frank lurches on to some unknown, unworthy goal. AJ stops in his tracks as the shiny new unhinged hipster plaything starts rapping in the most unlikely - yet highly fluent - fashion. 

From my perch on high I watch rapper man let loose his words, a snatch of “pussy” and “dick” drifting up in the cool, piss tainted breeze. AJ stands flapping his arms by his side in sheer delight. A baby magpie about to get the worm, while his bomber crew stumbles into the night oblivious to the new world order.

Testing, 1,2, 3...