The Britannia pub is by Adelaide’s most infamous roundabout. It was so unspeakably horrendous that its mere mention caused folks to shudder and shake. The final solution was, bizarrely, to build a second roundabout. This reminds me of the surgeon who says to a patient, ‘I’m sorry but the operation only has a fifty percent success rate.’

The patient replies, ‘Well just do it twice then.’

Twice a day for nearly eight years I drove through the Britannia roundabout.

In those 3,000 journeys I only saw one accident which is odd given back then it averaged a prang per day. There were plenty of near misses and times when motorists in front of me were paralysed by the challenge and didn’t enter the roundabout for what appeared as eternities. That one car headbutted a veranda post of the Britannia. The pub survived but I’m unsure about the vehicle.

When my ridiculous Nissan Exa was stricken with gearbox issues I rode my bike through the roundabout during peak hour on the way to and from Marryatville High. For nearly a week. It was a decent haul from Glenelg. The roundabout was exhilarating if fraught.

Friday nights in a pub should be fizzing with energy and promise and with the extra frisson of Mystery Pub they mostly are. But 5pm on Saturdays can be a lethargic, twilight zone. They’ve saluted in the last at Flemington so the sports bars are barren and it’s too early for dinner and the kids won’t hit the town for hours.  

The Britannia is mostly empty on Saturday for our Mystery Pub visit. Inside is stark and functional like a suburban café rather than seductive and intriguing and bursting with secret stories.

We claim a table with a Coopers Pale Ale (me) and a Padthaway white (Claire). I spy a brochure for the Repertory Theatre Company featuring the brilliant farce Noises Off. Unfortunately the performance dates and ours don’t align. Claire says, ‘Poo.’

Otherwise, it’s been a rewarding week as I saw Wes Anderson’s Asteroid City, which in its metatextuality includes a documentary about a play within the nested narrative of the film. The sense of mise-en-scène is tremendous. Claire and I enjoyed an episode of Julia Zemiro’s Great Australian Walks and I continue to read Room with a View (upwards of a page a night before sleep) which is partly set in Florence.

Friday night we dined with dear, old Kapunda types (thanks for the soup, Trish and nice to see you Trev and Eleni). We discussed Stanley Tucci and his excellent series, Searching for Italy. Not only does our lovely friend Stephen look like him but their families are from neighbouring Italian villages. As a host Stanley is witty, curious and grateful (so is Stephen).

We also speak of the episode set in Sicily and Palermo. What utter privilege to know Italy and compare travelling tales. As always, Stephen and I chat about the Beach Boys and tonight dissect their wonderful, haunted song, ‘Heroes and Villains.’ I reckon Stanley might also be a fan.

He’s also in the great film Margin Call which explores the origins of the Global Financial Crisis. In it he plays a quantitative analyst who formerly worked as an engineer. Clearly bitter about Wall Street he delivers a monologue about the real, human benefits of a bridge he once built.

“It went from Dilles Bottom, Ohio to Moundsville, West Virginia. It spanned nine hundred and twelve feet above the Ohio River. Twelve thousand people used this thing a day. And it cut out thirty-five miles of driving each way between Wheeling and New Martinsville. That’s a combined 847,000 miles of driving a day. Or 25,410,000 miles a month. And 304,920,000 miles a year. Saved. Now I completed that project in 1986, that’s twenty-two years ago. So, over the life of that one bridge, that’s 6,708,240,000 miles that haven’t had to be driven. At, what, let’s say fifty miles an hour. So that’s, what, 134,165,800 hours, or 559,020 days. So that one little bridge has saved the people of those communities a combined 1,531 years of their lives not wasted in a car. One thousand five hundred and thirty-one years.”

As you can see, the gubmint should’ve phoned Stanley to fix the roundabout. After less than an hour Claire and I leave the Britannia. It’s quiet on the roads.