Memory is tricky. Wandering the Paris end of Collins street sipping espresso, waving to paroled Extinction Rebellion protesters, and thinking you live in the world’s most sophisticated city, it turns out your memory isn’t what it used to be at all.
Rather than laminated European chic, March Melbourne is petrolhead city with bars full of red Ferrari baseball caps whispering Daniel, Oscar and Shoey, breathlessly watching the monitor as Grand Prix mechanics reach for a set of wrenches.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Subscribe for just $2 a week
Try a month of The Spectator Australia absolutely free and without commitment. Not only that but – if you choose to continue – you’ll pay just $2 a week for your first year.
- Unlimited access to spectator.com.au and app
- The weekly edition on the Spectator Australia app
- Spectator podcasts and newsletters
- Full access to spectator.co.uk
Or
Unlock this article
You might disagree with half of it, but you’ll enjoy reading all of it. Try your first month for free, then just $2 a week for the remainder of your first year.
Comments
Don't miss out
Join the conversation with other Spectator Australia readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.
SUBSCRIBEAlready a subscriber? Log in