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Sunday, 9 December 2012
Sunday, the 18th of November, 2012 started as any other Sunday in Fremantle. Hipsters gathered at Cafes, each claiming they’d put their woollen cardigans on that morning, before they were cool. They were joined by old Italian gentlemen trying to outdo each other with gesticulations as they sipped coffee you could stand spoons in. Parents herded their children into cars headed for the nearest sportsground, revellers from the night before did the barefooted walk of shame from strangers houses, and the latest bunch of nutters to board a sheep ship rattled tins at the Markets to raise bail money.
But something was different. Something was in the air, something electric, like the moment before the lightning hits and the thunder rolls, when your hair stands up on end and your arm raises goose bumps with corrugations a trainee Shire grader driver would be proud of. You could smell it, rain on the horizon, or far off smoke from a distant fire. Or the dust of a thousand country cars as they weaved their way through the unfamiliar bituminised roads of Perth. If you build it, they will come, and come they did, in a display of pride that made more than one old cockie’s eyes moisten and voice falter before the day was out.