Brunswick Depot

I was so damned caught up in finding the right angle that I didn’t realise the security guard was talking to me.
‘What’s that, mate?’ I asked.
‘Who are you?’ he repeated with some impatience. ‘This is private property.’
‘Just a local resident.’
‘What are you doing?’
I’da thought it was obvious.
‘Taking a photo,’ I said.
‘Well, you need a green or orange vest if you want to be here,’ he replied.
‘A what?’
He struggled to overcome his impatience.
‘A green or orange vest,’ he repeated.
‘Righto,’ I said. ‘I just want to take a photo, mate.’
He edged into the shot, swept a hand through his hair, and said: ‘You need a vest.’
‘Listen mate,’ I replied. ‘Can I take a photo or not?’
‘If a tram comes around the corner, it’ll hit you,’ he said. ‘You need a green or orange vest.’
I tilted the camera slightly to exclude him from the shot.
‘Okay,’ I said, and the camera went ‘click’. ‘Thanks for that.’
He gave me an obliging nod.
‘About those vests…’ I said, and his patience ran out.
‘Get out of here,’ he said, but I’d already got what I wanted, and a smile to boot.