Free in Melbourne on a spring afternoon I went walking. Last time in Melbourne was mid-winter and the place was dirty and dull. It had recovered. In the capital of black I noticed an ecotourism travel company called Extragreen Holidays. Their advertising sign had the company name emblazoned across a very big jumbo jet.
She was a painting restorer, he a successful international actor with his chauffeur-driven car waiting outside to whisk him away at the end of the surrendered ninety minutes. The chauffeur was reading Proust—something that since the creation of the world has never been known to happen outside plays or Melbourne novels. In this complacent and show-off script the characters talked about food, property, holiday destinations, foreign travel, restaurants, education, movies, books and writers, painters. Murray-Smith had turned the Saturday Age into a play.