Ah, the Australian Open.
A time when people of all cultures gather in one place to be burnt by the sun and entertained by the rhythmic alternate striking of a small rubber ball by two incredibly well-paid young people who, in turn, are surrounded by a grim-faced coterie staring at lines painted on the ground, concerned to the point of obsession about which side of the line the rubber ball may fall.
A Zen-like state of serenity descends upon the crowd, brought upon them by the rhythms of the game.
The attention of all is focused on the smallest of details . . . the direction of the serve, the curve of the ball, and the light glinting off the sweaty buttocks of the streaker.
For this moment in time the thousands are joined as one. And thus peace is achieved.