Albert Park; a picture of paralysed paradise; a drunken man's lodgings; my lunch time retreat. Overlooking the pond, which doubled as the park's bin - where shopping trolleys bathed and plastic bottles floated like dead fish in a coagulated miss mash - leant a number of weary, fed-up looking trees. If it wasn't an alcoholic sponge pissing on them it was a gang of arcade kids ripping off their blooming arms, and once those little itches had been called in for tea, shell-suited warriors from planet Kevin put in a shift. Landing in their Formula 1 Novas they used their wrists for something other than wanking by graffiting glum looking tree-trunks with equations of pubescent love that never added up: 'Shazza 4 Dunc 4 ever 2 gether'.
