This city is odd, as cities are wont to be.
I see a large bag of fresh bean-sprouts lounging on the pavement on George Street. The bag is propped up against the large, slightly grubby plate-glass doors of a Vietnamese restaurant, looking for all the world like a hungry orphan. The restaurant isn't open, but the sprouts are waiting. How they got there and whether this is a daily occurance, I can't say.
Further along, the rumbling tail of George Street suddenly becomes Parramatta Road. There's a two dollar shop here that's freshly opened. In its window are two-foot-high replicas of the Terracotta Warriors from Xian. They are stupefyingly ugly. I am almost relieved to discover the world can still produce such atrocities of interior design. The day's shaping up well.
Then, tucked away in a back street, past an iron-smith and a bordello, I find a sofa-stuffing workshop. The entire floor is awash with fat feathers and wispy down, and in the midst if it all stands a stooped man stuffing lounge cushions. His workshop looks remarkably like the scene of a kooky crime in which giant, white-feathered ducks were callously pumped up until they burst.
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