Turnbull Alley

Men and Women of all walks of life sit and talk in hushed tones about projects being started, dealings being made, and political views at amazing cafes. The steady stream of traffic both mechanical and human give the City its music, and the bang crash of delivery trolleys busting out the base lines. 

I sit here with my own cup of wake up juice, and think how much the day differs from night, yet the remnants can still be seen and smelt. The air is mixed with the odd smells of bacon eggs and toast, but if the wind moves just so, you catch a whiff of the stale beer and other  odours of the night. The theatre goers male contingent now have no need to use the outside toilet and risk giving Old Mrs Cohen a fright if you didn’t quite get it back in its home fast enough.

I down the last of my coffee and hear yet another delivery bashing down the cobbles as two men talk about light fittings and architrave’s. The mottled light, sounds and smells of the local eateries, and clang of tram bells remind me about everything I love about being home in my Melbourne.

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