I hate interviews, hate interviewing people and hate being interviewed by other people so it's a little mysterious how I managed to be interviewed so much in the one year. I like mysteries so to balance out things out I will now solve the mystery of the interviews.*
Interview 1 - Cleo Magazine
At the time I agreed to this interview it seemed too ridiculous to be true. I am not a fan of this kind of magazine, broader cultural harms and that sort of thing, but in this instance I knew the journalist to be a good one, a woman of integrity with genuine journalistic intent and also the topic was about being independent and happy despite being terribly old. Too weird a chance to pass up, almost like being an anti-girl-mag topic. Take them down from the inside. I think it was the April one, can't really remember.
Interviews 2 - 5 million - Newspapers, Blogs, Websites & Radio
These interviews were all about PAN magazine. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a magazine editor will subject themselves to multiple interviews for the good of the magazine.
It did feel a tad awkward when I had to interview myself but fortunately my friend Spencer came over and pretended to be me, the interviewer me, so that I could answer myself. None of us, not me, Spencer, Spencer pretending to me or the other way around uttered the words 'Willy Wonka' but they did somehow end up being in the title of the interview. You can read it here if you can be bothered...
Interview 5 million and 1 - ABC Radio National
I am terribly fond of the Olympia Milkbar on Parramatta Rd but that alone is insufficient to convince me to go on the radio. I am petrified of going on the radio. Every single time I go slightly odd with fear on the walk there and nearly get run over or walk into large objects like buildings and public sculptures.
There are two reasons I recently agreed to risk being run over and head down to the ABC. The first was the radio man informing me that the 'V' in the middle of his email address was for his middle name, Vince. The second reason was that he sounded kind and slightly amused rather than annoyed by my phone call demanding to know if this was in fact a strange prank.
I had planned to say all sorts of things about the importance of the geography of sound, my larger project of map making through public memory and the texture of this city. Instead I blurted my usual mixture of incomprehensible prattle interspersed with statements surprising to both the interviewer and myself which is one of the reasons I have decided to become sophisticated next year but more of that later.
The very best part of the interview was when Radio Man Middle Name of Vince first sat me down in one of those tiny rooms full of strange electrical equipment. He produced several pieces of paper on which he had written responses to my ponderings about why he wanted to interview me. I can now reliably inform you that he is not secretly in love with Vanessa Berry, he does not want to yell in my face, bring back the dinosaurs and is not the illegitimate love child of Milkbar Man. Nor had he heard about my imaginary submarine but he does now want to blow it up with imaginary battle ships.
It is a great shame that he does not live in Newtown. I have the feeling that if he was walking down King St I would not only nod hello but also raise a hand and wave. It is probably best if I did not attempt to speak with him because who the hell knows what is likely to come out of my mouth, it could be anything from 'Happy Christmas' to 'Your shoes are peculiar why are you wearing them?' or even worse, of course it wouldn't be on purpose but not everybody understands that.
Despite my input I will encourage everybody to listen to the Radio National documentary about the Olympia Milkbar when it goes to air next year. You never know, they might edit me out entirely.
* I am only solving the mystery of why I was interviewed and not the mystery of why I interviewed other people. It is safe to assume I interviewed people when an editor told me to and not for any other reason, except maybe the Quaoub interview. I think I had a small urge to try and share his good music with the world. I've done my part, the rest is up to him really. Can't make people listen to a record that doesn't exist yet.
Showing posts sorted by date for query olympia. Sort by relevance Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by date for query olympia. Sort by relevance Show all posts
I knew it
I knew this blog would come in handy one day. I am currently researching myself or more specifically things I have thought about the Olympia Milkbar using the handy dandy search function. My thoughts about the Olympia Milkbar have been wildly inadequate but at least I can read them.
Tomorrow I have to go to the ABC to be interviewed about the Olympia. I am wondering why the ABC man wants to interview me of all people. I suppose it is because I have mentioned it a few times and maybe not everybody does, either that or one of these possible reasons;
- he wants to bring back the dinosaurs and has heard about my plan to do it first so he has concocted an elaborate story in order to meet and murder me,
- he does not like my writing and wants to yell that at my face,
- he is secretly in love with Vanessa Berry and is hoping I can perform the necessary introductions,
- he is the illegitimate love child of Olympia Milkbar Man and wants to talk to people who have met his father,
- he has heard about my imaginary submarine and wants to have a go at sinking it with his imaginary fleet of battleships.
Any one of the above reasons could be the mysterious truth. Only time will tell.
Tomorrow I have to go to the ABC to be interviewed about the Olympia. I am wondering why the ABC man wants to interview me of all people. I suppose it is because I have mentioned it a few times and maybe not everybody does, either that or one of these possible reasons;
- he wants to bring back the dinosaurs and has heard about my plan to do it first so he has concocted an elaborate story in order to meet and murder me,
- he does not like my writing and wants to yell that at my face,
- he is secretly in love with Vanessa Berry and is hoping I can perform the necessary introductions,
- he is the illegitimate love child of Olympia Milkbar Man and wants to talk to people who have met his father,
- he has heard about my imaginary submarine and wants to have a go at sinking it with his imaginary fleet of battleships.
Any one of the above reasons could be the mysterious truth. Only time will tell.
Three jobs, one woman, five kinds of toilet, a brief note on the goodness of Gemma and waiting for a bus
This week I have started three new jobs. They say that starting a new job is one of the most stressful things a person can endure, that and death and divorce and moving house. I have caught buses without being sure of just where exactly to press the dinger button and alight. I have risen earlier and earlier each day to drag combs through my hair and locate something respectable to wear. I have argued with my digestive system to avoid doing strange things in strange toilets. This week is wearing me down, erasing my sketch marks and shading to leave only the vaguest indicators of my own personal shape but I'm beginning to think of it as a kind of inevitable fated voayge. Call me Ishmael and locate Ahab, I need to have a word with him.
Job one was a job for one day and one day only, it was planned that way. I sat with my back to the ocean until I realised that the ocean was not just at my back but all around me. Jelly fish floated beneath my feet. If it was not the world's most inconvenient office to travel to I might have wished to work there like a lighthouse for a day or two longer. I performed a single task over and over until even my thoughts were stilled. I turned off my ipod and experienced the absence of sound, thought and reason.
Job two requires me to stand outside the Olympia Milkbar to catch a bus every morning, this is the one and only highlight of the job. The toilet is on the other side of the wall from my supervisor, I have learned the art of silent weeing. Cigarette breaks are not permitted, there is no soy milk for tea of coffee, the company mugs are made of plastic and the walls are all painted grey. I have to ask for work every three minutes. I am given a small and simple task, complete it half an hour before they expect me to then ask for something else to do. I am not convinced that they need me.
Job Three is not technically a job though I do have a deadline, an editor and a publishing date. It is an intermittent sort of thing where I email the editor something I might like to write about and then he goes through a mysterious process of deciding and organising. Ordinarily this is something I might imagine, like opening the wardrobe to find it suddenly a thriving fish tank or walking out the front door and ponies, tea pots and cup cakes instead of cars.
What I really want to talk about today is Gemma. If was The Captain of Giving Out Gold Stars then I would award 53 to Gemma. Gemma is the most articulate person I have ever met and I am strangely blessed with articulate friends. I could stay up til fifty three a.m. writing about Gemma and still not be able to explain her goodness, but still another day I might attempt it.
When this week is over, when I have pressed send late Sunday afternoon and my review is vanishing and reappearing somewhere else entirely, I will have time to sit and ponder with a tea cup or two. I will have time to sit on my chair on The Peach Deck under the mulberry tree and count silently along with my breathing while the cat sleeps curled as a question mark.
Job one was a job for one day and one day only, it was planned that way. I sat with my back to the ocean until I realised that the ocean was not just at my back but all around me. Jelly fish floated beneath my feet. If it was not the world's most inconvenient office to travel to I might have wished to work there like a lighthouse for a day or two longer. I performed a single task over and over until even my thoughts were stilled. I turned off my ipod and experienced the absence of sound, thought and reason.
Job two requires me to stand outside the Olympia Milkbar to catch a bus every morning, this is the one and only highlight of the job. The toilet is on the other side of the wall from my supervisor, I have learned the art of silent weeing. Cigarette breaks are not permitted, there is no soy milk for tea of coffee, the company mugs are made of plastic and the walls are all painted grey. I have to ask for work every three minutes. I am given a small and simple task, complete it half an hour before they expect me to then ask for something else to do. I am not convinced that they need me.
Job Three is not technically a job though I do have a deadline, an editor and a publishing date. It is an intermittent sort of thing where I email the editor something I might like to write about and then he goes through a mysterious process of deciding and organising. Ordinarily this is something I might imagine, like opening the wardrobe to find it suddenly a thriving fish tank or walking out the front door and ponies, tea pots and cup cakes instead of cars.
What I really want to talk about today is Gemma. If was The Captain of Giving Out Gold Stars then I would award 53 to Gemma. Gemma is the most articulate person I have ever met and I am strangely blessed with articulate friends. I could stay up til fifty three a.m. writing about Gemma and still not be able to explain her goodness, but still another day I might attempt it.
When this week is over, when I have pressed send late Sunday afternoon and my review is vanishing and reappearing somewhere else entirely, I will have time to sit and ponder with a tea cup or two. I will have time to sit on my chair on The Peach Deck under the mulberry tree and count silently along with my breathing while the cat sleeps curled as a question mark.
Why not write a letter complaining to the council?
Christ alive have I got some stories to tell. My new and thankfully temporary place of employment requires me to be exhausted by the end of every day. I have tied ropes to my arms, there are teams of robots operating the ropes thus enabling me to type.
I am temporarily, thank goodness, working for a local government office, not my local government. I have no real idea of what is that I am supposed to be doing. My work seems to involve a combination of storm water drains, garbage collection schedules, lamp shades, parks and something called the umbrella of infrastructure. On the plus side I get to read all the letters that people write to their council, this has confirmed many of my long held suspicions.
Travel to my new and temporary office includes spending ten minutes each morning standing outside the legendary Olympia Milk Bar, I only wish that it was open in the mornings so that I could test my luck by attempting to purchase things. Once I asked the man for a can of lemonade and he said "No, you can't have a drink today".
I am temporarily, thank goodness, working for a local government office, not my local government. I have no real idea of what is that I am supposed to be doing. My work seems to involve a combination of storm water drains, garbage collection schedules, lamp shades, parks and something called the umbrella of infrastructure. On the plus side I get to read all the letters that people write to their council, this has confirmed many of my long held suspicions.
Travel to my new and temporary office includes spending ten minutes each morning standing outside the legendary Olympia Milk Bar, I only wish that it was open in the mornings so that I could test my luck by attempting to purchase things. Once I asked the man for a can of lemonade and he said "No, you can't have a drink today".
Blow up the pokies; the years will condemn
Now not everyone likes The Whitlams, in fact I'm pretty sure I don't like them but if you're thinking about the geography of sound and I'm thinking about the geography of sound, then I don't think I can entirely ignore them, not even if I want to.
I was crossing borders today driving out of the city until I could see the flat hum of the horizon. Dropping in on Superman at his Mum's house I drank a hasty cup of tea at Emu Plains, conscious all the while of a container full of chocolate pastries waiting in the car for Rita's oven. I'm no pastry chef and my hands were still sore from rubbing the skin from hot hazelnuts straight out of my oven. I was worried something might happen to them in the car so that when I baked them in Rita's oven the middles would run out and the pastry shells burn to a crisp. No such in-car-pastry-disaster occurred and Rita pulled them brown and ready from the oven about an hour later but I've lost my train of thought.
I was sitting in the mountains, glass of sarsaparilla in hand, chewing on a triumphant chocolate pastry. No, that's not it either. I was driving down the mountains back towards Emu Plains wondering why the horizon was now behind me when it occurred to me it might be slightly bonkers of me to promise Superman I would help him with his odd project that afternoon. You see how I am tired and threads of thought float past each other without hook or knot or woven shape.
This evening Superman and I visited the Olympia Milkbar. I failed to adequately explain the legend, I failed to build in Superman's mind the right blend of curiousity and sorrow. I failed to explain that he should enter with silent reverence because it is everything that needs to be remembered. A cabinet of lest we forget. I am determined to try again, soon.
I dropped Superman at Central Station then headed back through the city to Newtown and Spencer waiting at the island cafe. We drank coffee and hot chocolate. We walked south for pastizzis walking the middle length of Newtown. From Newtown to Newtown crossing atmosphere and memories. Half way through my chilli con carne pastizzi I noticed the conversation was wide open, my words were making sense and I was interested, in everything.
Spencer and I have been talking about the geography of sound. We've talking about locating self through memories of landscape, the effect of place on our work, the people that have turned centuries and lived here throwing bricks and songs and words into our landscape, the one we're sitting in right now.
I'm thinking about the landscape of today and how different parts of me live in Emu Plains, The Blue Mountains, Springwood, Central Station and scattered walking ghosts in Newtown. I'm thinking about the geography of sound and the rain shadows of words. I'm thinking I might need a compass.
I was crossing borders today driving out of the city until I could see the flat hum of the horizon. Dropping in on Superman at his Mum's house I drank a hasty cup of tea at Emu Plains, conscious all the while of a container full of chocolate pastries waiting in the car for Rita's oven. I'm no pastry chef and my hands were still sore from rubbing the skin from hot hazelnuts straight out of my oven. I was worried something might happen to them in the car so that when I baked them in Rita's oven the middles would run out and the pastry shells burn to a crisp. No such in-car-pastry-disaster occurred and Rita pulled them brown and ready from the oven about an hour later but I've lost my train of thought.
I was sitting in the mountains, glass of sarsaparilla in hand, chewing on a triumphant chocolate pastry. No, that's not it either. I was driving down the mountains back towards Emu Plains wondering why the horizon was now behind me when it occurred to me it might be slightly bonkers of me to promise Superman I would help him with his odd project that afternoon. You see how I am tired and threads of thought float past each other without hook or knot or woven shape.
This evening Superman and I visited the Olympia Milkbar. I failed to adequately explain the legend, I failed to build in Superman's mind the right blend of curiousity and sorrow. I failed to explain that he should enter with silent reverence because it is everything that needs to be remembered. A cabinet of lest we forget. I am determined to try again, soon.
I dropped Superman at Central Station then headed back through the city to Newtown and Spencer waiting at the island cafe. We drank coffee and hot chocolate. We walked south for pastizzis walking the middle length of Newtown. From Newtown to Newtown crossing atmosphere and memories. Half way through my chilli con carne pastizzi I noticed the conversation was wide open, my words were making sense and I was interested, in everything.
Spencer and I have been talking about the geography of sound. We've talking about locating self through memories of landscape, the effect of place on our work, the people that have turned centuries and lived here throwing bricks and songs and words into our landscape, the one we're sitting in right now.
I'm thinking about the landscape of today and how different parts of me live in Emu Plains, The Blue Mountains, Springwood, Central Station and scattered walking ghosts in Newtown. I'm thinking about the geography of sound and the rain shadows of words. I'm thinking I might need a compass.
Who is David Tilley?
And in other exciting happenings I seem to have caused eight people to join the Olympia Milk Bar Fspazbook group. I only wish I could have a celebratory cupcake but I can not because I am a fecking vegan. Fecking vegans can not eat $1 smiley face cupcakes with pink icing from the bakery near my office. This is a crime against my humanity.
Deciding to go ahead and be a temporary vegan for two weeks was a fucked idea and I mean fucked with a capital F. Fucked. Ever since I have been a vegan I have been craving plain chips. Salty, crunchy, oily, good. I can eat them, no problems there, I have had both crinkle cut (superior) and flat (only edible if kettle style of chip). I wake up in the middle of the night ready to DIE if I don't have a chip. I have not died but am surprised by this.
I wonder if the Olympia sells chips. The last time Spencer was there he asked for a chocolate bar and the diminished man said - not today. Spencer ended up with some chocolate but it took three goes.
I have also been craving vegemite. Salty, good. I have stuck my finger in the jar more than once this evening and may do so again. I am wondering if all vegans do this. Maybe they have secret vegan clubs where they sit around on the floor dipping chips into jars of vegemite and drinking elderflower water. I would join that club, if only temporarily, it sounds ideal.
Deciding to go ahead and be a temporary vegan for two weeks was a fucked idea and I mean fucked with a capital F. Fucked. Ever since I have been a vegan I have been craving plain chips. Salty, crunchy, oily, good. I can eat them, no problems there, I have had both crinkle cut (superior) and flat (only edible if kettle style of chip). I wake up in the middle of the night ready to DIE if I don't have a chip. I have not died but am surprised by this.
I wonder if the Olympia sells chips. The last time Spencer was there he asked for a chocolate bar and the diminished man said - not today. Spencer ended up with some chocolate but it took three goes.
I have also been craving vegemite. Salty, good. I have stuck my finger in the jar more than once this evening and may do so again. I am wondering if all vegans do this. Maybe they have secret vegan clubs where they sit around on the floor dipping chips into jars of vegemite and drinking elderflower water. I would join that club, if only temporarily, it sounds ideal.
Exciting
I have decided that I will meet my future husband at the Olympia Milkbar. I have joined the Olympia Milkbar group on Fspazbook. This will help.
I have decided that my future husband will already read my blog before he meets me, he will like my blog and not think that I am a pathetic loser. He will go to the Olympia because he is fascinated by it. He will maybe be a writer but definitely not an accountant, an astronaut would be ok if we did not have to live in Florida in America. I do not like the sound of Florida. Florid-a. Yucky.
He will be the pioneer of the Australian space exploration, he will be able to properly describe what it is like to be in space. He will not endorse any home exercise equipment. He will buy me a drink at the Olympia. He will be a very nice yet unboring man. He will be kind to The Spatula and Grizelda but secretly not like them very much because he is jealous that I spend so much time with them. This will gradually change over time because he is not usually jealous. He will not own any baseball hats, he will have a capsule wardrobe, he will put my books into a sensible order. I am going to call him Grieg, this name will change soon.
I have decided that my future husband will already read my blog before he meets me, he will like my blog and not think that I am a pathetic loser. He will go to the Olympia because he is fascinated by it. He will maybe be a writer but definitely not an accountant, an astronaut would be ok if we did not have to live in Florida in America. I do not like the sound of Florida. Florid-a. Yucky.
He will be the pioneer of the Australian space exploration, he will be able to properly describe what it is like to be in space. He will not endorse any home exercise equipment. He will buy me a drink at the Olympia. He will be a very nice yet unboring man. He will be kind to The Spatula and Grizelda but secretly not like them very much because he is jealous that I spend so much time with them. This will gradually change over time because he is not usually jealous. He will not own any baseball hats, he will have a capsule wardrobe, he will put my books into a sensible order. I am going to call him Grieg, this name will change soon.
Launch it - Ilumina
A poet called me gracious and held out an arm as though to place a hand on my shoulder as I slipped out the cafe and into the back of the bookshop. I spent the evening perched alone at the back of the back courtyard peering through palm leaves to catch glimpses of the poets as they read. I was there with my work hat on, I walked across the bottom of Redfern and Chippendale both trailing and pushing weariness, not worried to arrive on time. A colleague came and went before things got started leaving me stranded next to a man with Berlin hair fascinated by a Danish woman on the other side of him. Too tired to feel any discomfort at being so glaringly alone amongst the tight knit groups of old faithfuls I stretched out my legs and let people clamber over them as the need arose. I was prepared for boredom and the increasing awareness of the hard seat of my chair, I was not prepared for the opening address to be the answer to all my problems.
On Sunday, after my adventure to the Olympia milkbar on Parramatta Rd I walked through the front door and decided, in an instant, to give up writing, forever. This is a decision I have been very happy with every second, every half second, every waking blink, since I threw down my pen and declared the war over. But that was before I heard what Judith Beveridge had to say about the courage of the writer and I thought yes. What courage we need and I knew as soon as I thought 'we' that it was nothing but a dream to give up writing. It is a necessary torture.
There were dire moments at the open mic and two moments of bliss. The first was a man, tallish and ordinary with matching beanie and jumper making a hesitant start. He softly asked me to follow his words into violent understanding. The second a beautifully graceful elderly woman in a turquoise overcoat and round brimmed hat. Her deliberate words had grace and depth and when she finished I realised I wasn't breathing and I was almost overcome by the sublime ache of grief and love. Fucking poets.
On Sunday, after my adventure to the Olympia milkbar on Parramatta Rd I walked through the front door and decided, in an instant, to give up writing, forever. This is a decision I have been very happy with every second, every half second, every waking blink, since I threw down my pen and declared the war over. But that was before I heard what Judith Beveridge had to say about the courage of the writer and I thought yes. What courage we need and I knew as soon as I thought 'we' that it was nothing but a dream to give up writing. It is a necessary torture.
There were dire moments at the open mic and two moments of bliss. The first was a man, tallish and ordinary with matching beanie and jumper making a hesitant start. He softly asked me to follow his words into violent understanding. The second a beautifully graceful elderly woman in a turquoise overcoat and round brimmed hat. Her deliberate words had grace and depth and when she finished I realised I wasn't breathing and I was almost overcome by the sublime ache of grief and love. Fucking poets.
Moment of terror at the Olympia Milk Bar
I've had one of those illuminating movie moments where everything becomes clear, all my structured bounded thinking is swept aside like a house of cards and I know the truth of the matter, and it is horrible. I know exactly what I want, down to the finest smallest detail of putting away the clean tea spoons after the washing up is done.
I am suddenly love sick and forlorn. I am astonished at how secret and dark I have kept this from myself and now I don't know what to do. It all started when I set off on my adventure to see the Olympia Milkbar. Grizelda came with me in sidekick fashion and we were happily striding along the streets on Stanmore towards Parramatta Rd when I thought oh, there is a widening of thought amongst these well-kept family homes. I had temporarily forgotten how much I hunger for a warm home full of love to come home to, every day. As we walked past hundreds of semis and federations and bungalows all with flowers in the garden and a short neat front path a chasm opened in my chest. I will never have this because I am unlovable.
The Olympia was dark, only one light works in the whole shop. There is indeed a wall of empty chocolate boxes and the faint smell of death. I bought a can of coke just because there was nothing else to buy. The diminished man in his neat jumper made me pay my two dollars before he reached under the counter for my can. The man wasn't ashen and creepy in a comic book way as I was expecting. He was a lighthouse of sorrow. He illuminated my fissures and exposed my ridiculous capacity for love wider than the horizon and now I am raging inside with all this love turning in loops with nowhere to go.
I phoned Elliot. I phoned Elliot and we talked about cheese making and vibrators and going to the movies and marshmallows and his decision to be s&c (sober and celibate). I am sober and celibate but unlike Elliot I secretly wish for the opposite. I wish for a house with built in bookshelves and a fireplace in the bathroom, I wish for wine and dinner and crawling into bed with someone who wears flannelette pyjamas. Someone who might pop out of bed in the morning, don dressing gown and slippers then come back with two mugs of tea. I feel like Jane Austen's Emma when she realises no one must marry Mr Knightly but her.
Now I have a choice. I can sink or swim for the desolate shore. Which will it be? I'm voting for sink but I've run out of poison.
I am suddenly love sick and forlorn. I am astonished at how secret and dark I have kept this from myself and now I don't know what to do. It all started when I set off on my adventure to see the Olympia Milkbar. Grizelda came with me in sidekick fashion and we were happily striding along the streets on Stanmore towards Parramatta Rd when I thought oh, there is a widening of thought amongst these well-kept family homes. I had temporarily forgotten how much I hunger for a warm home full of love to come home to, every day. As we walked past hundreds of semis and federations and bungalows all with flowers in the garden and a short neat front path a chasm opened in my chest. I will never have this because I am unlovable.
The Olympia was dark, only one light works in the whole shop. There is indeed a wall of empty chocolate boxes and the faint smell of death. I bought a can of coke just because there was nothing else to buy. The diminished man in his neat jumper made me pay my two dollars before he reached under the counter for my can. The man wasn't ashen and creepy in a comic book way as I was expecting. He was a lighthouse of sorrow. He illuminated my fissures and exposed my ridiculous capacity for love wider than the horizon and now I am raging inside with all this love turning in loops with nowhere to go.
I phoned Elliot. I phoned Elliot and we talked about cheese making and vibrators and going to the movies and marshmallows and his decision to be s&c (sober and celibate). I am sober and celibate but unlike Elliot I secretly wish for the opposite. I wish for a house with built in bookshelves and a fireplace in the bathroom, I wish for wine and dinner and crawling into bed with someone who wears flannelette pyjamas. Someone who might pop out of bed in the morning, don dressing gown and slippers then come back with two mugs of tea. I feel like Jane Austen's Emma when she realises no one must marry Mr Knightly but her.
Now I have a choice. I can sink or swim for the desolate shore. Which will it be? I'm voting for sink but I've run out of poison.
I have information
About the Olympia milkbar in Stanmore. In her recent book Strawberry Hills Forever Vanessa Berry talks about her obsession with the milkbar and its mysterious owner. Why is it so decrepit and what's with all the empty chocolate boxes? I have information.
Apparently the shop used to be owned by the ashen creepy man and his brother. His brother died fifteen years ago but not before extracting a promise from ashen creepy man that he would continue to run the shop, forever. Since the brother's death the cinema next door shut down, Parramatta Rd doubled its traffic and no one goes there anymore, except Vanessa Berry and the terminally curious.
I think I'm going to make a special trip.
Apparently the shop used to be owned by the ashen creepy man and his brother. His brother died fifteen years ago but not before extracting a promise from ashen creepy man that he would continue to run the shop, forever. Since the brother's death the cinema next door shut down, Parramatta Rd doubled its traffic and no one goes there anymore, except Vanessa Berry and the terminally curious.
I think I'm going to make a special trip.
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