The hotel, a bland, blue and white monument to the folly of late fifties architecture, occupied the entire frontage along Exhibition Street between Bourke Street and Little Collins, at the top of the hill up from the main retail district. As such I could see the mob long before I arrived and moreover, feel their frenzy even before I was amongst them. A maniacal herd of hysterical female flesh surged about me, all claws and elbows and ear-splitting shrieks, a collective banshee cry of yearning for their idols.
    Those idols had long since retired to their rooms, after pleading with their devotees that they should return to their homes, and anyway, had been ordered by the authorities not to show themselves again. A PA system hopelessly tried to inform them that the band had left the building, that they were at a press conference that could be seen on TV and why not go home and watch it.
    But the girls were waiting it out, and would do so until the first concert which was not scheduled until the following evening. I looked them over. About the periphery, comatose lasses where being attended by ambulance crews and police. Plainly my cause was futile and anyway, now that I was here I truly did not want to be seen nor thought of, even mistakenly, as being a part of this madness. I contemplated giving up, but the thought of returning to the hospital empty-handed was too much. So I hung about, neither going forward nor back, at a slight distance, constantly scanning the faces for a familiar one.

James Kennaway, a Scot, wrote an odd bunch of books. The Mind Benders, about flotation tanks and suspension of sensation, is a neat piece—especially in the way it places ground breaking science on such a real suburban basis. The best moment is when, on the run and exhausted, the hero engages a dog in conversation. “Moosh, don’t look so trustingly at me. You are just a series of conditioned reflexes... A machine in furry clothing...” without realising he is describing himself. Most of his trouble seems to stem from having a wife named Oonagh, and a daughter named Persephone.

The master sadly begins to lose his touch. Marnie was the story of a rich man who cures his wife’s kelptomania only to discover it has made her frigid.Tippi Hedren starred, not in the class of Kelly, Novak, Leigh nor even Doris Day, and Sean Connery was unable to shrug off the Bond shackles. As bland as its poster.