A Simple Time – Peter FitzSimons Flesh Wounds – Richard Glover

My dear mother took a shine to one of Peter FitzSimon’s books, his take on the wreck of the Batavia. She offered to lend it, but I demurred due to the pile of ‘must reads’ I already had waiting for me on my shelves. One of those was, in fact, his memoir ‘A Simple Time’. I’d pick it up cheap a few years ago, somewhere or other. Since that day it had slipped further and further down the order as other I considered more worthy tomes superseded it. ‘Flesh Wounds’ is a more recent purchase, but it too had suffered a similar fate, although I knew it’s arrival back in 2015 was to great acclaim. It was about time I found out what all the fuss was about. So I decided to read both in succession.

My Mum was even more impressed with my news that FitzSimons’ wife was television stalwart Lisa Wilkinson. I also figured his latest, a retelling of the mutiny on the not so good ship Bounty might be an ideal Chrissy pressie for this amazing lady. Who knows, I might even get around to reading it myself. He’d never really been on my radar, Peter FS. Being from Rugbyland didn’t help. I knew he wrote columns for the Sydney Morning Herald and often commentated on the tele. To his credit, he is also a leader keeping the flame burning for us becoming a republic. And that, till ‘A Simpler Time’, was about all.

In truth this memoir doesn’t set the world on fire. It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time, but his childhood is largely unremarkable – and probably all the better for that. It speaks of a time when kids and freedom was a synonym, not the opposite, for better or worse. He and his siblings roamed around, largely unfettered, from daylight to dusk, over his parent’s struggling acres.

PFS was one of six young ones in a time before television and certainly well before this era of tiny screen fascination. His mother had married down to a man she obviously loved to bits – her yearly stipend from her rich folks helping to keep the struggling orange orchard on Peats Ridge solvent. It also assisted in giving their children a jolly good education. In the book there are tales of bullying, first love, yearning for sporting success (which eventuates), country values as well as the city versus the bush. Later comes a journey to check out the family’s origins and a realisation that his dad, like so many at the time, had an unspoken of battle with depression. And Peter comes to appreciate, as in my case, how wonderful it was/is to have a remarkable mother to aide him through all his own troubles and tribulations. One tale that really hit the spot was how, in her later years, he came to have his photograph taken with her by a Walkley Award winning camerasnapper amongst the orange trees. The image is on view in this biography along with many others from the family album.

What a joy it is to read that, on her deathbed, when Helen was asked by one of Peter’s sisters what the best thing about her life had been, she replies, ‘Having sex with your father. Any more questions?’ Delightful.

Now, whereas the above was delightful in patches, ‘Flesh Wounds’ is a treat from cover to cover. Fitzy’s upbringing was quite normal for the time, but poor Glover’s was all over the shop.

Wil Anderson has likened this contribution to the list of classic memoirs to the work of America’s great raconteur Seinfeld. I loved it so much I rushed out and purchased Glover’s latest publication ‘The Land Before Avocado’ and if time permits, I will delve into his back catalogue too. As with FitzSimons, this author hadn’t meant much to me as he is also Sydney-centric, but his name does now. The columnist/broadcaster can boast, without possible contradiction that, in any parlour game of ‘Who Has the Weirdest Parents’, he would win hands down. He’d clean up if any bets were laid. Nobody else at any table could claim they were the result of a virgin birth. Then there is the story of how his mother had such a close connection to English aristocracy – until, that is, it all came tumbling down. There’s his father’s alcoholism and his step-father’s nudism – a step-father who was once his English teacher! What horror there was when his mum did a flit with him. If these stories do not have you in fits of laughter they’ll, without doubt, have you cringing. Eventually Richard sets out to discover the reason for his parents dysfunctionalism. They were a bizarre lot.

I am so thankful my upbringing far more resembled that portrayed in the first offering, but as a read Glover’s exceptional effort is sublime. I’ve always figured nothing could surpass Clive James’ ‘Unreliable Memoirs’ as a tale of an Australian childhood. Glover comes close. Just brilliant. And don’t get me started on the teddy-bears.

Peter FitzSimons’ website = http://www.peterfitzsimons.com.au/

Richard Glover’s website = http://www.richardglover.com.au/

Potential. This author reeks of potential. Susan Midalia has a fine way with words as she reverses the old trope of men of a certain age and their Peter Pan Syndrome. The author’s heroine is preying on an older guy, but he’s playing hard to get. He’s refusing to succumb to her youth and winsome charm, although her approaches, admittedly tentative, should make it all too obvious to discern what she is after. She wants him, boy does she want him – and for most of the duration the reader is unsure whether she will succeed or be thwarted.

A book by Jane Austin brings the couple together on a Perth train – thus the title. She’s made a commitment to herself to read the author’s lesser known works. Of course, in a crowd, Adam is easy for her to pick out as he too is perusing a tome rather than a hand-held device. They query each other on their chosen reading matter and away we go – except this is a slow-burner. He has baggage and Adam, contrary to popular expectation, feels the age difference should be respected. How long can he hold out? He is a staunch supporter of the Greens, so this gives the girl another portal into his world.

I did relish ‘The Art of Persuasion’. Hazel, being a failed teacher, was someone I could relate to as my chosen profession was never all beer and skittles either. Her tale emphasises the difficulties facing young teachers embarking on this testing vocation. But, as she eventually discovers, there are joys to be had within it as well – even if some of what occurs in her classroom stretches credulity. This is the author’s first novel and for my taste there is a bit too much riffing on various issues close to the hearts of true Greens. This concern, though, only marginally detracts from the essential loveliness of the product of Midalia’s efforts. This reader really wanted to put a bomb under Adam, telling him that he’ll regret, long term, rejecting what Hazel was trying to hand to him on a platter. We want to give his five year old son a cuddle as he is a lovely creation from the writer and we should feel a cheer coming on as our young lady finally, courageously makes some progress with the art of teaching. She begins to meet her students head on and finds that works.

Hazel, as well as the reluctant Adam, worm their way into our hearts and any author able to do that with their characters is one to watch for the future.

Another review of the novel = https://queenslandreviewerscollective.wordpress.com/2018/03/19/the-art-of-persuasion-by-susan-midalia/

It’s a what-if that lingers.

Imagine if, after a long flight due to a family recall to be by my father’s bedside as he was passing on, I entered his hospital room to find that the woman holding his hand was not my dear mother. Imagine it was, surprisingly, a person I had never met. Now imagine if that was only the tip of the iceberg. Continue imagining that, in the weeks that follow after this shock, I discovered that my dad had a secret life about which I had not the slightest notion. If that then leads to a conclusion being arrived at that the reason he is lying in bed facing death may not have been accidental – well then, oh dear!

Of course, apart from the hurried trip back to Oz, this never occurred, but that is the premise of Sydney-sider Michael Robotham’s fascinating new publication, ‘The Other Wife’.

I am a late convert to this author, bought over by his previous tome, ‘The Secrets She Keeps’. Crime thrillers have never been my cup of tea until meeting Mr Robotham. His latest is his ninth featuring English psychologist Joe O’Loughlin. The significant feature of our hero is that, for the duration, Joe is battling ‘Mr Parkinson’ – a fact that has generated, for the writer, much kudos as a champion of research into a cure to this cruel disease.

Robotham isn’t an outstanding wordsmith, but his prose is competent enough to deliver us a narrative that keeps the pages turning over in a manner akin to watching a jolly good British police-procedural on the small screen. Now, if I were a younger man with more time on my side and less of a pile of must-reads on my shelves, I would avidly seek out the back-oeuvre of this fellow – he is most engaging.

This London-set work presents a sleuth who is typically conflicted. Joe is forced to reappraise his long held view of his often distant, preoccupied father. It seems the old fellow had a host of reasons for his mind being on weightier matters other than his son. It’s a son who is still grieving for a wife and coping with single parenthood. There is, though, a glimmer of a new romance beckoning. Could this be the last in the Joe O’Loughlin series? The writer has hinted as much. I hope not, even if I haven’t been around Joe’s creator for the whole journey. His situation was left hanging in the final chapter and I’d like to be a visitor to his world again in the future.

The author’s website = http://www.michaelrobotham.com/

The author’s a RCNR and wants to form a support group. I reckon I’m a bit of a one too. I’m fairly okay with my own, but over the years I’ve had great issues with my beautiful lady’s. It’s the colours you see. She likes grey tones – and so it seems do most of the rest of the population. On occasions I’ve been sent to deposit or collect and that’s when the RCNR thing hits me. It has done so to the degree that I have at times found myself attempting to break-in and enter. So for a serial RCNRer like William McInnes and those as far along the spectrum as he is, it’s a terrific move that the wordsmith-come-actor is considering. I may join as an associate member.

As one may readily discern from his current work in ‘Rake’, the star of stage and screen is no longer the epitome of manliness that gave Laura Gibson the will to live again after the departure of Diver Dan in the iconic ‘SeaChange’. He’s still picking up roles, but is no longer leading man material. He’s the first to admit this, as he does several times in ‘Fatherhood: Stories About Being a Dad’. Maybe writing should become his main gig in light of that, although, in terms of memoirs, it is hard to imagine that there are many more guffaw inducing tales from his life remaining to tell. His first collection, ‘A Man’s Got to Have a Hobby’ (2005) was a cracker. ‘Holidays’ (2014), together with 2016’s ‘Full Bore’, were not far behind. In this one he tells many more, often self-deprecating, yarns, but there seems now much ‘boofheaded’ philosophising as filler.

McInnes never takes himself too seriously and regales us with delightful memories of teaching his kids to drive, their errors producing ‘the underhand of involuntary self-protection’. Then there’s the explaining as to how, at his stage of life, one goes about engaging in a sex scene with a comely actress for television. Perhaps it’s the one on display in the latest season of Cleaver Greene’s misadventures – not a pretty sight. He riffs on sunsets, the delicious taste of the much maligned mullet and the confusion that can come when he is repeatedly mistaken for fellow thesps Ben Mendelsohn and Noah Taylor by the punters. Once he was even mistaken for himself, a hilarious recollection. It reflects the downside of being both writer and actor. In the tome are also included the touching missives he wrote to both his offspring on the completion of their secondary education. He also recalls some more of the crazy characters he met during his formative years growing up in Queensland. Not the least of these was his own father, so prominently featured in previous publications. He writes on death and dying before informing us that going orienteering is perhaps not the best cover for having an affair.

No book of the non-fiction variety from this Aussie larrikin can be passed up by me, even if the laughs were not as forthcoming as previous efforts. Perhaps they are even more precious for that.But now, getting back to being a Recidivist Carpark Non-Rememberer, it is worth noting that Leigh and I are about to head, at time of writing, to the Gold Coast, scene of our worst case of echoing the proposed founding member’s exhortation of frustration, ‘Who designs these bloody carparks!’ Our story of a lost car in the vast expanse of the Pacific Fair parking facility will serve as my opening gambit to apply for membership. If that’s not enough, there’s the time I opened a door to a sedan and proceeded to sit in the passenger seat, only to discover there was a young lady aside me who, indeed, was not my Leigh. There are, added on, the countless times I’ve attempted to open the boots of vehicles that, on closer examination, were patently not hers. I think joining my fellow RCNR is a given.

White Houses – Amy Bloom Leah on the Offbeat – Becky Abertalli

‘Under our breasts and in our creases, we smelled like fresh baked bread in the mornings. We slept naked as babies, breasts and bellies rolling towards each other, our legs entwined like climbing roses. We used to say, we’re no beauties, because it was impossible to tell the truth. In bed we were beauties. We were goddesses. We were the little girls we’d never were: loved, saucy, delighted and delightful.’White Houses’- Amy Bloom

‘I just look at her. I just can’t believe I’m allowed to do this. I can just stare at her face without it being creepy. I want to memorise every inch of Abby – the shine of her cheekbones and the brightness of her eyes. There are tears in her lashes and her cheeks are sort of puffy. I don’t know how this girl can go from laughing to crying to kissing and back, and still come out of it looking like an actual moonbeam.’ ‘Leah on the Offbeat’ – Becky Abertalli

Such tenderness.

It goes without saying that it can’t be easy to come out and for centuries it had to be hidden. That’s still a necessity in many, many countries – but thankfully, here and America, despite Abbott and Trump, it has become a non-issue as far as the law is concerned. Not that it makes announcing it to friends and family any easier as a result.

Of course, in mid-C20th America, the setting for ‘White Houses’, the option wasn’t there for either gender, but I suspect the authorities were tougher on the males. Naturally, getting away with it was much easier if you were the wife of the President. As stated, the FLOTUS was not the beauty, in the classic sense, she was in her youth by the time of her liaison with the lover in this semi-factual tome. But then, nor was that lover – although the latter blamed that on the unflattering photography of the era. Not that attractiveness is in any way important, except in that perhaps plainness doesn’t conform to male fantasy. In any case hubby, POTUS, was in a semi-open relationship with his secretary and those in the know, including the media, turned a blind eye. Wouldn’t happen in this age of shock-jocks and gutter media. In that period the White House kept its secrets closely guarded, including FDR’s paralysis. Eleanor was a much admired figure, even loved, by the general public; noted for her good works and lack of airs. Compare that to today. The two led separate lives – maybe that’s still relevant – and Mrs Roosevelt’s close companion, during the years Bloom is writing about, was former journalist Lorena Hickok. Despite the crowded first lady’s schedule, the couple do find time to be intimate.

The pair are from entirely different backgrounds – possibly accounting for the mutual attraction. Hick’s early years were hardscrabble with an abusive father. She ran away to join the circus in her teens, losing her virginity to one of the ‘freaks’ on display at a time she was fast discovering she had a way with the written word. That leads to her career – a career that had to be curtailed when she became too close to a powerful woman.

The novel is told in a hard-boiled style from the lover’s perspective. Most characters are historical, but there are a few invented ones such as Parker Fiske. He loses his cabinet position due to his sexual proclivities, perhaps pointing to a few double standards.

This reasonably short novel is a compelling enough read, leading one to delve to deduce fact from fiction by sussing out other interpretations of the same tale.

Fast forward to the present and the YA book by Becky Albertalli (who found fame with ‘Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda’), ‘Leah and the Offbeat’. This story is as contemporary as can be. I suspect its target audience will rush to it as they obviously did to the first novel, heightened by the fact that Simon is also a character in this.

Leah is in her final year of high school, is a drummer in a band, is definitely not one of the in crowd and is potentially a talented artist, although the latter is kept well hidden. She is also coming to the conclusion that it is not only boys she is attracted to. In the heady weeks leading up to the prom Leah’s support group is fracturing over a racial comment by one of her cohort. It’s offended her to the core, although it was directed at another. Leah is outwardly feisty and opinionated, but inwardly torn between the lad who’s taken a fancy to her and Abby, the hot girl who is everything, it seems to her, she is not. As the group decide on their college options Abby and Leah are drawn together, especially once the former dumps her jerk boyfriend.

As a read for a sixty-something fella, this wasn’t usual fare, but it carried me along to the end well enough. But girls of a certain age, as well as a discerning lad or two, will love it, as evidenced by the gushing but wholeheartedly felt positive reviews on-line. And if it helps even one young person struggling with their sexuality – well then, despite being a cliché, it’s worth it’s weight in gold.

Amy Bloom’s official site = http://www.amybloom.com/

Becky Abertalli’s official site = https://beckyalbertalli.com/

On a trip away to Mangoland I spent a few most pleasant late afternoons with Harvey Beam, resting up from forays to the scenic temptations of the Tweed and Byron Shires. He was terrific company, even if he had come down in the world.

I discovered that, since gaining a foothold in big city radio, he had progressed to being the king-pin of the breakfast slot. Even then it was much to his father’s disgust. He was earmarked for far, far better than that tawdry profession. All this Harvey confided to me those sunny afternoons.

Nothing lasts forever for any of us – not prime time nor life. Eventually Harvey’s ratings decline and he’s shunted to the sleepy afternoon slot, a new sycophantic, fawning and golden-tonsilled brekkie host is unearthed with old Harv starting to feel he’s on a downward slippery slope. And then, to cap it all off, he’d recalled to Shorten, the country town of his upbringing. Here his disapproving old man is gravely ill. On arriving his dad doesn’t want to know him and his brother’s being an arse. His two sisters, to add more to his woes, are cat fighting like there’s no tomorrow. Back home his daughter decides this is the time to have a major crisis and Harvey confides it’s all getting a bit too much.

It sounds dire, but there’s an up-side. He can take a breather and re-calibrate, he tells me. En route he had also met Grace and that may amount to something too. And then, guess what? The local radio boss offers him a time-slot. Could this be a blessing in disguise?

Is Carrie Cox the new Nick Earls? Her style of writing reminded me of the Sunshine State’s scribe at his best. Needless to say, then, I revelled in ‘Afternoons with Harvey Beam’. Earls has been around for quite a while now, but Cox is only starting out. The Perth wordsmith has several other publications under her belt, but this is her first novel. Stick at it young lady. You’ve all the attributes.

One afternoon I was about to doze off when Beam confided to me that his nick-name within the family was Pencil. It took a while for the penny to drop. Harvey Beam. HB. Get it? Clever one that.

An interview with the author = https://www.betterreading.com.au/news/qa-with-journalist-turned-author-carrie-cox-talks-about-her-novel-afternoons-with-harvey-beam/ =