Street Sadness

     Today as I manned NKN Gallery’s city space, in Melbourne, a middle-aged man wandered in. He was tall and wore a fluorescent-orange workman’s vest. He beamed at me and said hello. Then he walked around the gallery, scrutinising all of the paintings on the walls. He then stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips,      “This reminds me of being in school!” he observed, nodding at the abstract paintings before him. I gave a pleasant reply and smiled. Then the man strode over to where I sat at the desk.      “Now, can I pick your brain for a minute?” he asked. I replied that he was most welcome to do so. “So, if I bring a painting of mine in here, would you guys plonk it up on the wall for me and sell it?”      “Well, the short answer to that is: probably no. You see these artists are all part of the gallery’s stable and they are represented by the gallery.” He was undeterred b...

     It was a fine day. I took my clothes across the road to the local laundromat. There is something cathartic about dumping a load of clothes into the big rotating drum and watching as they roll through the soapy water towards cleanliness.      The laundromat was empty of people. I chose my favourite upright machine and put my washing inside it. I closed the big round door and I got some soap from the machine on the wall, which I poured in. I rolled my coins in and there was the comforting whooshing sound of water as it poured onto my clothes. I decided to forgo sitting on one of the metal chairs, which were bolted to the floor under the big window, as they had proved uncomfortable in the past. Instead, I went to the rear of the shop and hoisted myself up onto a Formica-coated wooden block and leaned back against the wall.      An old man now shuffled in, pushing his battered mobile walking frame before him; i...