"Movement is Survival!"

Somehow I missed the news that today was the Newtown festival. If I had been more alert to subtleties on the street I would have had forewarning.

The first hint was when I passed a pop-up sausage sizzle on the street outside a dress shop. It barely registered on my consciousness, despite the sudden appearance of these in public being the hallmark of community events such as fairs, elections or community celebrations.

Then I passed 6 men seated at a café, all wearing loincloths and top hats and nothing else. A dog leash was tied around a leg of their table - tethered to the other end was a goat wearing a coronet of flowers.

Newtown being Newtown, however, I didn't think anything of it beyond wondering vaguely where the men kept their wallets.

So when I rounded the corner onto the main street, I fell with astonishment into a sea of humanity. "Movement is survival!" bellowed a bearded fairy to a mediaeval knight.

And he's quite right too - any conscious decision to head in a particular direction is overridden by tidal waves of movement that carry people around Camperdown Park - to get out of the rips and currents requires effort and nimble footwork.

The festival has two open-air concert areas, separated by gazillions of tents and stalls lining the pathways. There's a writer's tent. There is bicycle jousting. There are randomly placed hammocks in case someone has a sudden urge to lie down.

Scattered amongst the ubiquitous Australian spring dress code of shorts and shirts, there is demin and sequins and feathers and dreadlocks and tattoos and leather and tie-dye and neon and fake moustaches and armourand trombones and parasols and flares and polkadots and grunge and superhero costumes and flowers and pajamas.