Some years ago I chanced upon a busker setting up for a show at Circular Quay. It was an elaborate and lengthy procedure, designed, I suppose, to draw a crowd, and through it all he kept up a stream of one-liners that kept the gathering audience highly amused.
We waited about 15 minutes until it seemed the show was about to begin when, without warning, the busker, noticing a slight drifting away from sectors of the throng, threw a mini tantrum and started to pack up, stating that there weren’t enough people there to waste his time with a show.
I was reminded of this bit of circus interruptus when, up at Parliament House the other day, the Queen went sailing past the assembled royalists (standing, I might add, in an increasingly frigid and unseasonably chilly breeze) and straight into Parliament without so much as a wave or a how’s your father.
From our position at the bottom of the forecourt, we didn’t even get a glimpse, bar a tiny flash of white as she exited the Rolls. By we, I refer to yours truly and City Girl who insisted on coming along and even made a sign for the occasion.