In Sydney’s Botanical Gardens there’s a perfect rainbow over a tree full of sleeping fruit-bats. I can’t help myself – I clap my hands, and their furry foxy heads jerk out of their hanging bag-shapes, indignant at being woken. They squabble a bit, then tuck themselves back into their sleeping-bags.

We get to to the Art Gallery just as it’s closing, so we walk on down MacQuarie Street, and turn into Alfred Street – and there, set up in front of the Customs House with its royal coat-of-arms, is a big TV screen, beaming images of the beginnings of the Wedding Of The Century, intercut with interview footage of the Happy Couple, to the throng. There’s an enclosure set up in the square, with several bars, and seats, and hotdogs. There are three TV networks, cameramen and technicians, and at least three nicely-coiffed blonde presenters in very high heels, getting ready to do their pieces to camera. Lights, cameras, and, any minute, action. A big fruit-bat flaps by, over the screen.

A young woman in an attempt at a naval officer’s uniform, topped by a grim rubber ‘Prince Charles’ mask, is strolling around, chatting to the TV people, and there’s a stall promoting gay marriage. We’re transfixed by this scene, and watch for rather too long; a crowd of after-office-hours drinkers are watching from the bar under the Customs House portico. Eventually we stamp off, scornful, and go back to Newtown, where we watch the Wedding on Neil’s TV. I’m allowed to make comments only on the proviso that they are funny. None of them are. We switch over to a programme about Stalin.