flirting on mitchell

An old man shuffles along the footpath, pressed beige pants hoisted high on his belly, tufts of chest hair peeping over a white singlet.

He's gently waving a giant net, like one for catching butterflies or something the BFG would find useful in the place where all dreams is beginning.

'Come on, come on,' he coos softly, just out of swishing distance. His half-hearted comb over swirls in the smoggy vapour. There are fires burning somewhere in the state.

A little bird, uneasy in the big wide Brunswick, permits the courtship.