Grand Prix

Greetings from ground zero.

So the Grand Prix has left us for another year, praise the gods. This is what it's like on the track's edge.

First, every time you venture downstairs, the street is full of men with beer bellies, long shorts with pockets on the knees, because this is where their hands reach to, red Ferari caps - everyone supports Ferrari - and huge laminated tickets on lanyards around their necks. Why is this? They come in packs and they like to spead out in a single line across the pavement. Occasionally there will be a small boy or two in the group, never a small girl. Even less often a woman with a remote expression on her face will be with her husband. There are the grid girls of course, but I've never seen one of them except in pictures. They don't venture away from trackside.

The only people who even come close to annoying me as much as the Grand Prix men are the bicycle riders in their spiked shoes and lurid testicle clutching garments who infest the local cafes on Sundays.

The first two days feature aeroplanes - lots of aeroplanes. They roar overhead, circling and spewing out trails. There are helicopters too. But this is the good part. On the third day, the heavy stuff arrives, massive jet planes which set off huge booming explosions overhead, using a technique which I'm told was developed to frighten villagers in Vietnam. It certainly scares the hell out of me. The first time I heard it I ran outside, assuming that the building was about to collapse. It sets off every car alarm for miles, and every dog in St Kilda barks. God knows how they cope at the old people's home on the corner.

Actual race day is not so bad, it's just the dull roar in the background all day that can be a bit stressful. During the afternoon, Ferrari wins the race, and by Monday all is back to normal - in the street that is. The park is full of stands, fences, portable lavatories, trucks and assorted paraphernalia for weeks.

There are good things of course - there is always a newspaper picture of tiny Bernie Ecclestone with gigantic Ron Walker and Bernie's Amazonian wife which gives fleeting pleasure, and...actually that's the only good thing I can think of.

And now they want to run it at night, so as to catch the TV in Europe. Dear God, think of the energy wasted, think of the light towers polluting the park - and once they're up, will one use a year be enough Ron? No.

The first year of the Grand Prix, all the shopkeepers went crazy. They brought in portable refrigerator cabinets full of beer, espresso machines for the footpath, there were huge plastic rubbish bins outside cafes, full of little plastic bags of biscuits, and nobody came. Fitzroy Street is no more than the path to the track. They are not interested in coffee and bickies, and they'd rather get their beer closer to the smells and sounds of the cars.

So the second year there were no preparations, except for sad little signs outside the shops, saying We Will be Open as Normal on Grand Prix Weekend. Because, you see, not only do Grand Prix goers not spend, the locals go away for the weekend. Except me, because the damn thing crept up on me. Next year...

I have been doing voluntary work at a local clinic. A lot of it is spending mornings doing various clerical tasks, but occasionally I find myself working in a place where I overhear conversations between reception staff and patients. I think Harold Pinter must have had such a job once, because conversations in which neither speaker is to the point, and understanding is minimal, are the norm.

Lady at desk: He got a letter.

Person behind desk: Have you got an appointment?

Lady: No, he got a letter.

pbd: A letter from us?

Lady: I can't go to work today.

pbd: Have you got his letter?

Lady: No, he got a letter. I don't know.

pbd: What is your name?

Lady: Maria.

pbd: Maria. Where is the letter? Can I see it?

Maria: I haven't got a letter.

pbd: Are you the patient?

Maria: I just want to go to work.

pbd: Where is the patient?

Maria: What?



Then there are the ones where information seems to be wilfully withheld.:

Patient: (young, male, very cheerful)I think I might have an appointment here.

Person behind desk: For what?

Patient. Dunno.

pbd: Would it be an Xray?

Patient: Could be.

pbd: Have you got a letter?

Patient (Beaming happily): I did have.

pbd: What's your name?

Patient: Wayne

pbd (preparing to consult computer): What's your first name?

Patient: Wayne

And so on. and on and on.

Today, a perfectly normal looking man suddenly started to undress in the waiting room, displaying an impressive range of upper body tattoos. Nobody took any notice, just continued inquiring about his health insurance.

I have been tagged by Marrickvillia, who wants me to go to page 123 of the closest book to hand, count down five sentences and transcribe the next three sentences. Why? I know not, but here it is.

There are two books on my desk: the C. Day-Lewis translation of Virgil's Aeneid, and Tacitus' The Annals of Imperial Rome (trans. Michael Grant). Tacitus was marginally closer, so here it is:

'He anticipated malevolence among senators and others, but believed that Tiberius had the strengh to ignore gossip and was also immobilized by his mother's complicity. Besides, he argued, it was easier for a single judge to distinguish truth from defamation: numbers encourage prejudice and hostile emotion.

Tiberius was fully aware of the problems of the investigation and the malignant rumours about himself. So, after listening - with the help of a few close friends - to the accusations and pleas of defence, he referred the whole case to the senate.'

Where, no doubt, it ended in tears.

Window Furnishings, non-approved.

I've been brooding over this since before Christmas, when I received, along with all other residents, a letter from our body corporate. There are 97 flats in this block, and about six people attend meetings. Nevertheless these six felt empowered to send the rest of us an item headed Window Furnishings. This took the form of an edict relating to Non Approved Window Furnishings. I should not have been surprised - they once made a rule that no shoes were to be left outside doors, and they have succeeded in enforcing a no-other-plants-but-geraniums-in-the-window-boxes edict.

But window furnishings? Non-approved not allowed? What could possibly be a non-approved window furnishing? So I went out to have a look at the windows that face the public courtyard. There were plastic venetian blinds, which I think came with the flats when new. A few windows had wooden venetians, and some had drapes. (That's American for curtains.) But one, no doubt the poor soul being targeted, had hung a selection of Indian shawls in her window. and very nice they were too.

So what we have here is the Window Police. Will they patrol? Will they be brave enough to tackle the owner of the non-approved window furnishings? Will she tell them to get stuffed?

Just for comparative purposes, I checked out the windows of the community housing block which I see from my back windows - there were drapes, Indian shawls, a US Confederate flag, a skull and crossbones, a bead curtain, soft toys, mobiles, dreamcatchers,a stuffed crescent moon with a doll sitting on it, and one person appeared to have hung a bridal veil in her window.

Me, as soon as I've got time it's red satin in the spare bedroom.