Only in

Two o'clock on Sunday afternoon: a man in a motorized wheelchair rolls loudly down the highway. He's singing Elvis into a microphone, the lousy, over-bassed loudspeaker reverberating directionally across four lanes of traffic.
I wonder out loud if he's crazy. M, always the kinder of us two, suggests he's a traveling busker. I concede that's possible, if he's blind and indifferent to the lack of pedestrians this side of frankston. Perhaps he's warming up, building his confidence. He has a loudspeaker. That alone would seem to point to a certain level of comfort. Weird, we shrug, and carry on, watching the navy bastion of the Aussie flag flap behind him as he chugs along the deserted pavement crooning to the seagulls.