‘Two black limousines headed East on Union Street’, and continued on even as I closed the cover on the opening line of Robert Mapplethorpe’s biography. This aforementioned thought occurred to me. I opened the book again, expecting the wheels of the limousines to be clattering across a wooden jetty, headed to a dire drop. Brakes lock up, tyres slide across the freshly cut guts of the fisherman’s catch. Perhaps the limousine balances on the end of the jetty, precariously waiting for justice to make her verdict: into the East River? Or rebalanced to safety by burly fisherman pushing down on the boot? Instead, after the opening line of the Robert Mapplethorpe biography — isn’t his name delicious... wouldn’t you order it for breakfast — the author looked inside the limousine, to find, surprise, surprise, our protagonist: Robert Mapplethorpe. (at Collingwood, Victoria, Australia)