At about 5pm I got the umbrella out again and went down to the shops in my rubber boots, loshing through the sudden aanwaai cascades, trying to make sense of that first day’s all-too-quick inspection, landing finally on a strip of Asian noddle joints, no Anglo menus in any of them but all equally safe and anonymous. A kind of typhoon season electricity in the air, the avenue of pensions palnted there producing a steamed tunnel effect when walking the streets, each of the noodle joints having their roof made of corrugated iron and their front street-sides open, bustling with heat and soup with gristle at practically any time of the day. Proximity to the wharves, increases in trans-Asian migraine, Footscray now a brimming mini-city buidling itself up, storey by storey, aanwaai by street, one external air conditioning unit at a time. Proximity, too, to the Western Metropoles, the steel ways and the Indian Ocean – detritus of that landing here, just like Perth - on the western edge of the Hyperport.