A gentle stroll in the Victorian lunchtime sun, from the MCG, over the William Barak Bridge, through Birrarung Marr towards Federation Square. An uncoordinated game of football breaks out between uncoordinated people.
Taking in the impressive finery of the rowing sheds and waterside bars on the Southbank of the Yarra River to my left and the imposing steepling finery of the CBD on my right I’m half aware of the people up ahead ambitiously attempting to transform Melbourne to the Maracana.
“Look out mate” comes the cry as the ball heads my way. Happy it’s going to avoid me my a well-judged fraction I decide to ignore the man’s warning and the desire to extravagantly trap the ball and walk on in my own world.

Whump.

Something smacks into my shin. It’s not the ball.

“Aw jeez sorry mate” giggles this charming girl from behind her sunglasses, picking the ball and herself out of the gutter as her mates roar with laughter. The call from the Matildas obviously got lost in the post.

Welcome to Australia.

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