It's A Terrific Privilege To

On Melbourne Summer Mornings The Green Trams Go Rolling In Stately Progress Down Tunnels Thick With Leaves: The Bright Air Carries Along The Avenue Their Patient Chime, The Chattering Of Their Wheels.

That's One Of The Things I Hope That The Book Can Do, Is To Restore Some Dignity To Joe Cinque.

But I Can't Bear It When Somebody Who Some Man Made A Pass At - To Call That Violence Seems To Me Absurd And Insulting To Women Who've Really Met Violence, Who've Been Raped Or Bashed.

And Always Melbourne, Melbourne, Melbourne, Over And Over The Same Photo In Glaring Greens And Reds, Of A Tram, Huffy, Blunderous, Manoeuvring Itself With Pole Akimbo Round The Tight Corner Where Bourke Street Enters Spring.

Tentatively I Stood A Great Lump Of Wood On The Chopping Block And Bought The Axe Down On It. It Flew Into Two Perfect Halves. Such Was My Elation That I Ran Inside, Put On Our Ancient Cracked Record Of Aretha Franklin Singing Respect And Danced All By Myself For Half An Hour In Our Living Room, Without Inhibition, Almost Crying With Jubilation – Not Just About The Wood, But Because I Could Live Competently Some Of The Time, And Because That Day I Liked Myself.