A Shanty on George Street

Friday. Grave news from Sydney. My island shanty has opened on George Street, under the same roof as my galleon. Nobody asked me. Scarface says he told me in August. I do not remember August.

In Perth, prisoners have been doing it for years: off my ship, a glass of water, into my hut. Melbourne took it up in September. Now Sydney can do the same. Sydney, where they already treat my ship as a sort of ferry.

Worse still, the big crews have begun to split in two. Half go to the ship, half go to the shanty, both start at once, and afterwards they meet in the lobby to compare who robbed me fastest. I have been robbed in parallel. There is no word for how that feels. Scarface suggested ‘efficient’.

I have ordered extra locks for both. Scarface has offered to fit them himself. Where would I be without him? Ashore, probably, with my treasure.

Duchess has learned a new word. It is ‘Sydney’. She says it the way I do, through her teeth, which is impressive for a bird.