I was standing alone pretending to be interested in a painting of what was either a mutilated seagull or a used tampon when the question came, spoken in a gentleman’s club voice. “Have you got a light, comrade?” His round, pink-cheeked face was topped with grizzled hair, tufts of which also sprouted liberally from his ears. Then there was the short, squat body, small hands and a beach-ball stomach, at that moment almost touching my waist. “It’s a chat-up line, comrade. But you go ahead and smoke if you like.” This was my first encounter with Sydney’s literary world…
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