When I walk along the Yarra, I like to imagine that I’m driving. Everybody stops and stares at the madman who owns this side of the river. That’s right, you poor, simple pedestrians. I’m the king, and you have to move around me. Some of them contemplate calling the police, reporting that some psycho is driving on the footpath, blocking all the stay at home mums who have taken up jogging in the mornings. I don’t care. They should have thought twice before they crossed me. I turn up the radio and wind down the windows so that passersby can enjoy it too. They act mad, but I know they just envy me.
Sometimes, I imagine that my car breaks down. For a few hours, I am grounded, humbled as I reconnect with my former humanity. I am no longer above everyone else, but it just makes me happier when I climb back in and reassert my authority. Before that, I have to call up the best car service garage around South Yarra (provided it is the south side I have decided to dominate, which is my favourite of the two), and get them to come to me. I won’t let my car be towed away like common stock. No, I imagine that I drive a Ferrari.
On a bad day, I imagine that the shops in South Yarra aren’t open, so I have to go a little further. Thankfully, my breakdowns usually happen right at the end of the river, before it turns north. I know a good mechanic near Hawthorn that is my go-to. They’re used to my imaginary calls and are always happy to pretend to help. It’s great to have contacts, which get me back along the river in no time. I love those startled looks as my car is up and running again. The engine revving, they know their time with me is up. I’m off to retake my place as king of the path. Farewell, mere mortals, for I am above you once again.