Dancing in the Streets . . .

I'm sitting in Rosebank Mall sipping a hot coffee. Behind me, there's the sound of Africa - the gentle rise and fall of young voices repeating the same phrases over and over, a sea-swell of accompaniment to the morning sun . . . I look behind me and there they are, a troupe of young almost-naked dancers; in front of them is a guy on crutches, his face painted white, pretending to be a statue. The watchers drop money into the collection boxes as they pass or stop to listen.

A few minutes later, the morning pageant is disturbed by a moment of oafish misadventure. The dancers have given way to a performer who tries to balance a soccer ball on the end of a plastic trumpet. Achieving that goal, he settles into statue mode. Then a crash and pandemonium: the ball and trumpet fall to the ground, the now-mobile artist curses as his day's proceeds are scattered by the carelessly planted feet of the passing oaf.

The oaf mumbles apologies, empties his pockets of loose change, and moves quickly away . . .