Barry Rosenberg

It was a few weeks before Christmas, and despite the Queensland heat, people were rushing to and fro with bulging shopping bags. Everyone was busy with buying, buying, buying. The shops on Cobble St were close together and their weathered look suggested that they had been there forever. They were traditional shops, too: the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. It was the type of street, with its suggestion of antiquity, in which a young man could wander and his mind could turn to fantasy.

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