Oblivious to the irony, Ramona plied her walking advertisement through Pitt Street mall, even as the rumble in her tummy intensified. Coming from the blasted north of England, she was ignorant of the history of this once grand thoroughfare, although had she bothered, she would have found herself in the familiar surrounds of urban decay, and promised regeneration.
When she left home five months earlier, she had not realised that a “working holiday” meant just that. She’d had visions of packing around the countryside, traipsing from beach to pub to beach, taking the evening bus bound for the next tropical paradise. She had not factored in the distances, nor the dust, nor the flies and mosquitoes. But here she was walking the city, penniless and hungry.
Not for her the beauty of the Strand Arcade, or the sadness of the decimated Sydney Arcade. She was focussed on one thing only.
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