The fire alarm at Doncaster Shoppingtown, situated in a suburb of Melbourne, works piercingly well, spearing off the marble tiles floors.
Unfortunately the PA system can’t match it. Its distressed voice (“There is no need to PANIC! Everything is ALRIGHT! Sorry for any INCONVENIENCE!”) battles its own static and the unrelenting screaming siren.
Suddenly, the Christmas cheer is seared off the Doncastrian faces.
The demographics of this suburb comprises big earning men and their big spending wives.
One of the latter I see bending forward to look at diamond embedded brooches when she becomes stilled on her stilettos (she’s a goner if there’s a fire), her face encrusted with fret.
These wealthy-by-marriage women, protected for most of their adult lives from the elements, from cheap synthetic fibres, and the ungodly stench of rubber in Kmart, appear to be confronting fear for the first time.
One has neat bobbed hair and a faux Navy officer jacket with the big gold buttons. I imagine her in the navy and all this screeching belonging to diving Kamikazes and exploding ammunition stores and her groaning ship, shot full of holes, plunging completely vertically into the depths. Would she stand proud saluting or leap shrieking into the oil doused fire ridden sea?
If a major fire had taken hold in the shopping centre it would not have been a pleasant spectacle. The rush to the exits – Tom Ford parfum igniting necks and Estee Lauder foundation melting faces – accompanied by the clicking and clacking of Jimmy Choo heels on the light reflective but spectacularly slippery floor.
And those that make it to the stairwells risk – if they can’t keep the mortal dread under wraps and fail to out bustle their equally impractically attired competitors – undignified and fatal collisions with each of the raggedly finished concrete steps.