Mark Knopfler, Dire Straits.

Lazily sunning himself in his surf coast home, Glenn Druery* thought about getting another creamy soda from the cooler. Dire Straits was playing on the five-CD boombox -- Money for Nothing, not that earlier, pointy-headed stuff -- and, man, he really wanted that creamy soda. The waves crashed slowly on the beach. "We got to install microwave ovens," Mark Knopfler warbled.

Glenn cracked the can and the sweet beverage foamed over the push tab. He looked around and admired the fruits of his labour. The plastic ikebana in the lacquered black plastic vase. The Chinese-made porcelain-look jaguar in the hallway. The poster of the dude in the armchair being blasted by speakers. "Desiderata" etched on a shaving mirror. A genuine Ken Done on the wall. Look at that blue and pink. You could just see the harbour. That was art that was. Later, he would treat himself to a gnocchi carbonara and tartufo from the pizza joint, and listen to Phil Collins' No Jacket Required. Like he did every night. The sweat-banded one warbled, "Money for nothing and your chicks for free".