It’s a greyish Saturday afternoon in late August, and alongside other street party attenders, I’m watching two flamboyantly dressed women, one clutching a flute, backed by three male musicians while they shout out the lyrics to their new song, Kiddy Ska Party.
“I told you about my stitches / I told you about my stitches / Stop talking about my stitches / Stop talking about my stitches,” one is yelling. In the front, her almost-two-year-old daughter gestures towards her while an audience of adults, from old blokes with beers to young parents with prams, look alternately elated and amused. Somewhere near the jerk chicken stall my son runs up and down, having never played on a street without cars before. The scene is one of beautiful, eccentric mayhem.
