The gate would not take much more of this. Slap. Slap. Slam. The near naked form, chortling from deep within, rocketed out the gate, onto the bicycle, down Myrtle Lane, executed a massive skid round the crimson bougainvillea at the corner with Olive Street and disappeared from sight - but not from hearing.
Hotly in pursuit, came two smaller human forms, naked save for navy full-briefs, fawn ankle socks encased in sad-grey Dunlops and the obligatory backwards cap emblazoned with a tricolour Rooster. Tears, more of frustration than anger, brimmed and spilt as they cried for him to wait up.
The landscape of Myrtle Lane had changed little since first it serviced the terraces of the mercantile class. Rough hewn bush rock had made way for bitumen, open gutter-drains for connection to the subterranean terracotta network, and, the choko vine and passionfruit vine were now overwhelmed by wisteria and bougainvillea.