I'm sitting on aq tiny tiled balcony surrounded by cream and silver aluminium railings. A man in a yellow Alpha Romeo convertible pulls up at the bottom of the dead end street. He takes a hand held megaphone from the front passenger seat and stands in the middle of the street and announces his presence and his intentions. He's selling fresh seafood from his tiny convertible boot.
FRESH LOCAL KING PRAWNS his voice echoes up to my third floor apartment. He delivers his message in staccato. ONE. WORD.AT.A.TIME. FRESH. SAND. CRABS. FIVE. DOLLARS. EACH. He's done this before. He's been to advanced megaphone school - it's a final year subject for fishmongers.
Customers dribble out from unseen doorways below me to greet the upwardly mobile fisho. He's strangly conscious of his image. He wears bright yellow trousers which make me realise his Alpha is actually more orange than yellow.
He opens his boot to reveal twin eskies and I catch a glimpse of a yellow set of scales. The orange king prawns he weighs on the scales help me understand that his Alpha is actually more of a mustard colour.
The ocean behind him is greenish.