I left my wife and child in the back seat of the Volvo and, putting on my grey tweed jacket and collecting my cane from the boot, I walked down the natural depression that led from the road to the pyramid. Just before reaching it I passed three circles configured as spirals. There had been writing on these, moving centrifugally, but before I came along someone had rubbed with their shoe (from the pattern I would say Adidas sneakers) the words that had been put there. "Aboriginal" and "Artefact" and a couple of other words of less significance were all that remained.
I went and stood under the pyramid, mindful of its significance as a Dharruk site, but unable to overcome the lovely smells of barbecued steak coming from the picnic area a couple of hundred yards to the north. Three young boys came over to the pyramid and walked around it and then came and stood, with me I suppose, underneath it. The middle of them in height said to the largest "give me a push" and tried to scale the pyramid. He failed. They all did. It was too shiny, too slippery. I walked out from under the pyramid and looked at the mirrors that were placed, like shells, on the structure. The middle boy in height then picked up a rock and hurled it in the air. It struck one of the mirrors but the mirror didn't break. I said nothing. His friends said: "Aw, dim", and the boy threw a stone once again, this time harder. Once again he broke nothing. They weren't able to climb it so they tried to break it. This is the... The rest of this article is available to subscribers of Eyeline