battery samoyeds

i'm standing next to a three-time 1980s AFL grand final player. i've sunk three glasses of prosecco and all i've had to eat is a couple of bites of paté on toast so i'm a little graspy as we try to find some common ground other than pete.

'marvellous dimensions, this room. imagine when there were people living in it,' he says.

'there's tunnels all under fitzroy, a chef up the road told me. they run beneath smith street between all the old warehouses ands shops,' i say. i can hear myself barrelling into a high maintenance anecdote but the only alternative is silence.

'i'd say they all have cellars at the very least, that's how they kept things cool.' he smiles at me from beneath his handlebar moustache. there's still some goodwill there. i'm trying to contain the inner tripper but she's clearly keen to get a guernsey.

'we were eating dumplings at a place just up the road when the owner took a delivery of all this dog meat. big bags of the stuff they had to carry in on their shoulders. which was fine, but then he came over and felt he had to explain himself. "samoyeds," he said. "we're breeding samoyeds in the cellar, that's why we need so much dog meat." then he told us about all the tunnels underneath smith street. now i can't go past that place without thinking about all the battery samoyeds in the cellar.'

*silence*

'that sounds stranger out loud than it does in my head. i'd better check it actually happened.'