On a clear Tuesday evening, a twenty-ish, canvas-shod scruffster shuffled east from Bathurst onto Wellington and, looking either very lost or very uncomfortable, turned hesitantly into the gated patio of Marben Restaurant. He exchanged a few words with a sleek, formidably stiletto'd woman, and, miraculously, slipped inside.
Continue reading "Playdead, Ndeur, and Bird, Omy!"
