One of the manifold delights of Harlot Heights is that it's 45 minutes by foots from kitchen to office. I canter across the Big, Bad Road, and then amble down the hill past Prestonian rose gardens, then amble some more through the badlands of Reservoir, then amble up along Darebin Creek, over a bridge, round a lake, across an oval, through a tunnel, until - ta da! - the Ivory Tower riseth before me, dew-bespangled and beige-bricked in the morning sun.
This morning the school kiddies had school, for the first time since Harlot Heights and I joined forces. And thus the lolly-pop lady. The lolly-pop lady is as tall as my armpits and as old as my Great Aunt Gerty and she wears a fluorescent yellow jacket and a white hat. She stood by her crossing, watching me amble down the street, portmanteau on back, spectacles on nose, rubber soles beneath my feet. She saw me and she thought, "Now here's a young ducky who doesn't know one end of a horseless carriage from t'other", and she pluckily marched out into the street brandishing her lolly-pop stop sign. She stopped traffic. Just for me. And then she said, "Have a good day, love."