(2) FRIDAY 2nd March-
COURTYARD OPENING 

The sun is braising the pub's courtyard, toasting a very splendid Friday afternoon full of people who seem happy to be alive on a Friday. The launch of the Shepparton Festival—the largest and longest running regional cultural arts festival in Victoria—is due to take place in half an hour, and there are free drinks at the bar.

I order a gin and tonic (which I immediately feel guilty about, being  far more expensive than beer) and attempt to stand shoulder to shoulder with who I assume to be the Shepparton art crowd. On first survey they look to be very Melbourne, not country at all. I am sweaty from my drive up the Hume and nervous others will notice my perspiration and wide, surveying glances. I am a voracious stickybeak and eavesdropper. 

The first responsibilities of my role as roving journalist I flounder. My fellow students are asking questions, but I am too scared and neglect every opportunity to the red-shirted organisers (The Reds) questions. I favour finding a good spot for the opening instead.

At my new position I'm confronted by a group of blokes. They ask me if I'd like buy a raffle ticket for two dollars, but it's not exactly clear what I stand to win. They're in footy training gear and I assume the prize to be variety of cold meats on a meat tray, something I have no safe way of taking home in the off chance I get lucky. Home for the next two nights is the back of my station wagon. I cannot fit a fridge or even a small esky in my station wagon. 

I'm facing a dilemma. I don't want to win, but I don't intend to snub these locals. I have terrible luck, but I hate wasting food. I go with my bad luck, and after tipping my drink onto the concrete ruffling through my pockets for change they let eventually me have the thing for sixty cents less than normal price. The PA projects the testing, testing line and the group of boys wish me luck and to have a good one. I can't tell if they're genuine or not. 

We are treated to a traditional welcoming from a local Elder and I'm forced from my position by the bulging crowd, the latecomers. I meekly move aside. 

 A lady climbs the stage to begin her talk. I can't help but notice her unusual choice of clothing. It's her dress. It kind of looks like the cheesy blue shower curtain you'd find in a budget coastal hotel, in Merimbula or Lakes Entrance or somewhere grey nomads flock to. This is not a criticism. The fact is she looks great in it—in the shower curtain. I'm not sure if it is some kind of anti-fashion statement, but she looks great, probably better than everyone else in the courtyard. And she speaks well, so well that I actually forget what she's wearing just minutes into her address and I've actually missed her name from my trance. Maybe this is part of her onstage charisma? Her gimmick to hook the audience? Like or loathe her clothing choice, it is hard to look away. 

 I do eventually look away toward the end of her talk, but only to see if anyone might show signs of similar feelings toward our speaker. I see my classmates looking observant, taking constant notes and holding their phones up to capture audio recordings of the speech. I follow their lead and begin to write bland details of the festival (21 years old, the John Head award, cool upside down harmonica trophy) but trail off to some chatter to my rear right. A group of boys, potentially the ticket sellers, are talking obnoxiously. I predict the talk is coming from the ticket sellers because these dudes are talking about footy. I like footy, but they are loud and rival the PA for auditory dominance over the courtyard. The speaker persists. I spy The Reds scouting the culprits from the behind the stage. They are about to leave them be, before a very common derogatory term for a certain part of the female anatomy belts across the immediate area. Heads turn, but the gentlemen are still oblivious. It's a strange moment, a total culture overlap. This is what festivals are for: bringing us together! I reason. 

The boys are nicely asked to leave by a Red who I assume to be the senior Red, judging by the amount of Reds constantly seeking her approval. The Reds all seem very competent. They are the type of people who likely have five kids and two jobs and volunteer on weekends while completing their PhD. They are all smiling constantly, and seem to be make good use of the bar while running the place. 

We are soon directed to the rear of the courtyard to watch an artistic video piece. It's a compilation of HD footage taken from drone flyovers across the Goulburn valley region. A local engineering firm has provided footage for the artist to respond to musically, and I have to say it comes together well. I do however become distracted. The video reminds me of other drone videos I've seen. They're everywhere online. In one video a drone delivers a Bunnings snag to a very relaxed gentleman, reclined back in a bubbling spa. This video became an internet sensation and the story goes the spa gentleman was eventually charged thousands of dollars in aviation fines for flying in restricted airspace. Hopefully the makers of this video had permission. Another video I recall is similar to the artists' in composition style. It also is an interesting compilation of flyovers zooming above picturesque locations, but in this film adult performers are performing adulterously among the numerous beautiful locations. The drone careens above vineyards, white cliff faces, fields of corn etc. while various positions are performed by very fit and athletic young people. I do not know how I happened upon this video.

It appears people are rapt with the video. I am too, but I can't help looking for bodies on the banks of the Goulburn River in the engineer footage, hoping to find some kind of easter egg for attentive viewers. My strained eyes cannot however spot even a single naked toe. 

The video finishes and there is enthusiastic applause. 

It is almost dark. The temperature has to be still above 25 degrees. I am tired, and leave for the car to get some sleep for the next day.