Wandering the streets of any new town or city is a nice little adventure. Every place has its own unique look or feel. The township of Johnsonville wasn’t particularly special. Each pastel coloured house was virtually identical to its neighbour, and the shopping district was made up entirely of recognisable chain stores. It certainly wasn’t anything to write home about – the best postcard in the gift shop was an entirely black image that read, ‘Johnsonville by night.’ Nothing about the small city stood out to the casual observer, except the street signs. They were nothing remarkable in design, standard black font capitals on reflective white background, but the names were so unlikely. ‘On crescent,’ ‘The court,’ ‘If road,’ just to name a few. Casually strolling down ‘The way’ I stumbled upon the town hall; a small plaque attached to the building gave a short history of the town and its creator. Johnsonville had been constructed to cater for the workers of a nearby copper mine. City planner James Johnson had designed the town’s layout shortly before his untimely death. He was an aspiring screenwriter who had turned to architecture after limited success in his field of passion. I shuffled through my back pack to find my crumpled visitors’ map. I read the street signs down from north to south. It was a script. The story of Johnsonville was a drama about the daughter of a pharmacist and her rebel against her father’s dream; she did not wish to take over the family business her great grandfather had established. The account was poorly written and lacked any real body. It was no surprise that James Johnson didn’t make it as a screenwriter.