Skirting the fairground's painted forms, as if inside a kaleidoscope, I gaze through the strut-work of Corkscrew and Pirat. Beyond all this semi-transparency, offering so little resistance, neon flickers across a gorge; late sun flashes round shadows of branches — like interior detail, colour slides.
But stopped at the lights by our Luna-Park, what it is about a full moon above the big dipper I just can't quite put my finger on. The carousel, dodgems, and swing-boats make it feel like . . . I can't find it in me to say, though it's there on the tip of my tongue.