If you're a regular walker of the Melbourne streets like me, you can't help but notice him - who ?

The Wraith.

Over six feet tall, painfully thin. Like a spider, really. The one feature that strikes you the most is his hair. Very Long Grey Hair. Then there is the face. Showing signs of a suspected institutional past his fifty-something dial has a liberal coating of white pancake, some lippy too. The eyes-black sunken ink wells that also look made up, but they're not. The over-all look is not drag or effem, more a death-mask attached to a barely corporal body.

At each street bin he peers in for a free snack, e.g. a half eaten Mcdonalds hamburger, some coke (looking overwhelmed after finding a full buddy bottle-he scored!) Another time he was sitting at a street bench going over the wasteful shame of a three quarter eaten falafel, entranced in his lucky find. I stood surreptitiously as he gobbled it up at warp speed.

It's almost every day I see this bloke. On a windy day he has a novel way of wrapping his grey locks around his withered skull to fashion a head scarf. He's spooky and he spooks others. I like the look myself, sort of Goth/hippy/freak.

SUPER WEIRD.

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I have now started this journal in hard copy, more as a draft- come- occupational therapy. "Visual Diary" seems to be the latest name for them, though I suppose artists have always kept them. I like the feel; writing it all down with a pen, so more meditative.....a pleasure. Also trying my hand at sketching (see the botched job above) and penmanship.

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Walking towards the Technical Bookshop the other day, I witnessed a drunk Koori and a streetie, both within centimeters of each other-face to face, one staring the other out. Both looked worse for wear and about the same age, 40 or so. Two desperates ostracized by society with only the slim difference of culture now setting them apart and sadly against each other.

Continuing the walk back to work, I felt my right knee completely give up the ghost. Extreme pain with each step I took as I was swathed with sweat from strain. I was only at Londsdale and Swanston Streets, still having to make the journey to the top of Collins and Exhibition. It was every twenty steps that I would stop to recover, as well as leaning on walls and poles all the way. Passers- by gave me furtive glances as I staggered on, while I tried to not pass out with the pain. The jolts of fire being fired up my leg from deep within my knee would cease immediately if I stopped walking or sat down. Needless to say I'm at home now, with a week off, X-rays done with no sign of arthritis, luckily. An appointment with a rheumatologist on Wednesday will only find a torn ligament or cartilage, hopefully.

I'm an immobile prisoner of my own body. My Landlady Miss Maude now dominates me wholly.

I'm a complying patient.