Grand Prix

Dear Turkeys of the Grand Prix,

Speaking as a denizen of Albert Park, the week has been an almost unbearable joy. Not only were we blessed by our proximity to your hallowed motor event, but treated to the protracted (and awful) preparations! Living year-long beside a quiet, aesthetically verdant park would be an unlevened tedium comparable to bashing through The Genealogy of Trout in the original Russian; but with your stirling help, that possibility seems in no immediate danger of eventuating. Why, indeed, would anyone want access to the bike path, lake, tennis courts, gym, playground equipment, sporting fields or ovals at any time - what right, sirs, have we to expect such freehold at all? The monotony of grass being so constantly, drably green would, I'm sure, weigh heavily on our collective optic nerves, but thanks to the necessity of ripping up the turf and replacing it with asphalt, rubble, gorgeous white pebbles and vomit for what essentially becomes six months of every twelve, such affront has never been offered throughout our residency in the suburb.

This is to say nothing of the white-and-orange roadblocks, which, apart from soundly frustrating local traffic, have contributed further danger to a perilous six-way, thirteen-lane intersection. I was particularly impressed by the bus service promising a direct route from the Grand Prix to Crown Casino - a classy advertisment utterly in keeping with the calibre of the event, and one which at least afforded a laugh.

I could waste further wordage discussing the sonics - background noise reminiscent of the largest mosquito known to man being cracked back and forth on the end of a whip - but here, at least, my argument is hampered by genuine delight at the FA18 jets. Despite their ability two years running to set off every car alarm in the street, frighten our cats into hours of terrified hiding and generally make the entire neighbourhood bleed from the ears, there is just a tiny thrill in watching them fly overhead.

Perhaps, then, in organising next year's event, you might consider scrapping all land-based motoring entirely. Leave the park alone: scientifically-minded bystanders are curious to see whether or not, in the absence of a major annual reconstruction and demolition, the grass might turn some other colour than brown. You might get on the bell to the airforce and ask for a jet or three - everything would be over in 15 minutes, nobody would have to pay for seating, and the state might possibly not make a loss. Again.

Or you could crash a handful of overheated, shark-shaped, suspension-free cars into concrete blocks and insure against Death By Fireball.

Yours insincerely,

The SheGeek