Warning. Reminiscence incoming. Read on at your peril.
It was around 1979. I boarded an early morning number 3 tram at Flinders Street Station bound for Carlton. I had my coins ready to buy a ticket from the conductor. Yes ... coins, ticket, conductor ... positively prehistoric! With one swift movement, he vanquished my coins to the depths of his well-worn leather bag and ripped off a single ticket from one of the many wads expertly swung from his shoulder holster. Bewildered, I watched as he raised his arm with an unexpected flourish preparing to present me with my ticket. I held out my hand as the tram rattled along Swanston Street and, unbeknown to me, the eyes of other passengers in my direction. And then it happened. Instead of the ticket, the conductor released a yo-yo down into my hand which I instinctively went to grab thinking it was my fare. To conclude, the theatrical conductor of tram #3 then blew a whistle, sufficiently shrill for all the passengers to hear. Laughter quickly escaped from the surrounding passengers and, after momentary embarrassment, also from me. True story! He made my day and brought smiles to the faces of many early morning passengers. I came across him two or three times on my travels and have never forgotten the simple joy he brought to many.
Frenchie, who learnt his juggling skills on the streets of Paris where he busked.
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