I am now standing in Mayfair Shopping Centre, in front of the Stich It tailor shop. The air is rich with conversation, although it is hard to make it out:

"The food court was *too* busy."
"They have lots of cool stuff in there."
"Has your mum called and asked us to ..."
"Wanna take a look?"
"We're like - everyone else is like ..."
"And I'll send it over to *her*."
"Oh I know where you can get them."

Is this the distraction from the dread of mortality of which Becker speaks in The Denial of Death?

"Uh oh, you're gonna fall out, you're gonna fall out!"
"Excuse me!"
"... a space here and a space there."
"Yeah I know."
"So, one of the tickets is ... "
"... nothing to do with it. But it is a really nice ..."
"Sneak in here, check one?"
"... little less than ten minutes?"
"Nine dollars. Two for fifteen."
"They don't have a flashing sign, eh?"
"It's a really good idea."
"... just kind of stagger ..."
"And the rest in loonies, like three loonies."
"Two minutes."