Under the bridge


My son is on a bit of a Red Hot Chillie Peppers jag at the moment, endlessly plucking out Flea bass lines on his Yamaha. Personally I find the Peppers a bit samey, but I do like Under the Bridge.

It’s where I was the other day, the bridge over Maitland Road that is, taking advantage of a low tide on the way to the dog park. This bridge has a very different feel to the bridges further upstream on Styx Creek; a bit edgier. Someone’s recently abandoned a camp down there, though they look as though they’ll be back soon.


A nice cuppa tea and a shot in the morning. Blimey. It makes my life look pretty tame.


There’s layer on layer of graffiti, not the kind of big spray job or roller that you get elsewhere, but more the frustrated, desperate scrawl of someone who demands “Take notice of me! Respect me!”, all the while being too marginalised or insecure to make their demands in anything other than furtive snarls.


Yeah, ya fuckin parrott!


Go Eagle. Not ‘Eagles’? Not a team, then?


A friend emailed me the other day; his daughter wanted to go into the old gasworks admin building to take photos and he was wondering if it was safe. I’m no expert. The situation changes on a daily basis.

There are lives out there, lives I don’t even pretend to understand.