Category Archives: memoir

Sorry, it’s Shmith – not Smith

art and photography, memoir

I wonder how may times the above had to say that during his lifetime?

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I reckoned I purchased it sometime in the early 70s at OBMs, a book emporium on the corner of Collins and Elizabeth in Hobs. I remember purchasing novels there too – Graham Green, Andrea Newman, Margaret Drabble, Françoise Sagan. It’s long gone now, replaced by an Angus and Robertson and now it’s a chemist franchise. Lord knows where the book is now, but it was my first. As my confidence grew, others followed – but, being my first, it was a bit special.

athol smith stamp

The recent release of a set of stamps by Auspost – Mid-Century Fashion Focus, featuring the cream of the local photographers of the genre at that time, took me back there. One such, Helmet Newton, went on to great world-wide fame and presumably, fortune – renowned for his fine art nudes as well as his fashion portfolios. The others had local renown only. One, Athol Shmith, dabbled in nudes as well. And it was his book of beautiful women I forked out for, probably placing it amidst some other volumes to lessen the embarrassment, back in my uni days. I remember thinking how classy it was compared to Playboy and the other glamour magazines around then. As for the models – he went on to marry three of them whom he captured for public perusal. An extra allure was that they were local lasses. To me the emphasis was on ‘art’ rather than ‘nude’ – or, at least, that’s my excuse. Such publications, I recall, were quite rare back then on the shelves of genuine bookshops.

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Today there’s some glorious beauty to be had at the helm of a keyboard, but Mr Smith – sorry, Shmith – introduced me to eye-opening bewitchment, which I engaged with some more on one of my recent trips to Melbourne where the State Library had an exhibition of his fashion prints. Like OBMs, Athol S is long gone. But one can still view his images at various sites on-line – and now we have a stamp in his honour as a lasting tribute.

More images here – https://cv.vic.gov.au/stories/creative-life/athol-shmith/

Reboot 04

memoir, music, Television/DVD review

‘No, stop, too soon. I don’t want the world to go back to normal again. The only anxiety I have is about the old way of being that’s now roaring too soon at us, snapping at our heels to jump back on the treadmill all over again. And actually, I’m not quite ready to be strapped into the bra just yet. Not ready to face those congested, manic, indignant roads; there’s a lot of aggro out there and lockdown has provided a much-needed respite from it. The experimental, home-shaved heads of various sons have not grown out sufficiently for the world to see, and marvel at, plus a household freed from the stresses of the daily commute has been a thing to behold.’

Nikki Gemmell ‘No Going Back’ Weekend Australian Magazine June13-14, 2020

The great unfettering is occurring as I type. It commenced over the June long weekend when Premier Gutwein unleashed the shackles and evidently we exploded out from the cities to shackdom, coastal resorts Tassie style and walking tracks through the virgin bush. As a result, the Westpac Rescue helicopter was hard at it, ferrying injured hikers up out of the wilderness to the new helipad at the Royal. The news also reported, tongue in cheek, that a quarter the population of Launceston had migrated to the seaside gem of the North-east, Bridport, for the three days. Don’t blame them myself. Why, even the said Premier was there in the town chillin’ out. From here on in I suspect it will be full steam ahead for many – racing to get back to pre-COVID19 lunacy. Is it fair to call it that – lunacy? Yep, many, including a favoured columnist in Nikki Gemmell, who will feature heavily in this scribing, and I liken it to that. Some thrive with life in the fast lane, but then, on the other hand, you have this:-

‘People are trying to cope by loving being in lockdown, by creating a cocoon of safety, a haven, to make the whole experience more tolerable … Ironically that can create problems later on because people can love their lockdown too much and become anxious about going outside.’ (‘No Going Back’ ibid)

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Love lockdown? Well, yes and no. It’s certainly been no chore, sharing it with my wonderful Leigh. But, you could say, we’re ready to spread our wings, although we’re not being bullish about it. We’ll take it gradually. Trips to the north are first cabs off the rank and that will start to occur as June morphs into July. It’ll be after that, sometime, that we will start to venture to the cinema and restaurants, but I am starting to crave a beer and a steak at one of our preferred counter meal venues. Cafes will be the go sooner than that.

But largely we’re still in lockdown and I’m woolly. I examined myself in the bathroom mirror this morning and crikey, so woolly. Admittedly there’s precious little hair on top, but around the sides my fluff is sprouting in perpendicular fashion and the neck hairs have reached my shoulders.

And I guess that’s quite the big one, isn’t it. Nobody outside of my family, with the possible exception of my dentist (yes, a gorgeous female too), gets so up close and personal with me as the two lovely ladies at Lorraine’s Coiffure in Claremont who attend to what’s left of my hair. I’ll soon have to take the bit between the teeth, make an appointment with Jane or Hannah, to get the deed done before people will start thinking I’m a throwback to Black Bobs. I’m a little anxious about it, but I don’t think I’ll freak out. For me, facing crowds is still a long way off but, yes, I’m coming out.

Giving Consent Here, in Ireland and the USofA

When it came, early in ‘Normal People’ (Stan), it was stunningly frank, brave, beautiful and tender. He looked after her, he really did, did Connell. He’s a school sporting hero with a brain. He is a complex character – intensely private with considerable hang-ups that impacted on any relationship he could have with the opposite gender. When they first met he tried to keep his love for Marianne hidden from view. She was considered ‘different’ by the in crowd. Marianne was delicate, feisty, fragile and an outsider. She was from an affluent background with a distant, strange mother and an arse of a brother. His deflowering of her and the subsequent sex scenes, liberally scattered throughout the episodes of this series, are as intensely intimate and revealing as anything you’ll have witnessed on the small screen. These no doubt aided in propelling ‘NP’ into the stratosphere in the ratings, here and overseas. It’s also very Irish. Its impact launched two largely unknowns in Daisy Edgar-Jones and Paul Mescal into celebrities – why even the fellow’s gold chain, that he wears around his neck, has its own FB page. Throughout it is unflinchingly honest as the two squander chance after chance to build something permanent from their obvious obsession with the other. It’ll no doubt be marked by many as one of the year’s best.

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Contrast the care that Connell takes with his Marianne’s virginity to the way Nikki Gemmell loses hers, as she laid out to the reading public via the Oz in ‘Age of Consent’. Such a marked difference. For the columnist there was no tenderness involved – an experience she’d rather forget. Ms Gemmell reckons the scene from ‘Normal People’ should be compulsory viewing in sex education classes around the country, especially for our young men.

nikki_gemmell

Another series that provided some excellent viewing is the Reese Witherspoon driven ‘Little Fires Everywhere’ (Prime) where, as critic Karl Quinn describes it in a recent review, she plays the obsessive mother who is the adult version of ‘Legally Blonde’s’ Elle Woods. This, as well as ‘Normal People’, is based on a well regarded novel. Leigh, having read the source for this series, constantly remarked that the tele version little resembled the print, but that perhaps worked in my favour as I thoroughly enjoyed it.

norm

Witherspoon’s Elena has her ultra-perfect life upended when Mia (Kerry Washington) comes to town. The coloured woman is soon taken on as Elena’s ‘maid’, for want of a better, if not more appropriate, word. The stereotype is obvious, but Mia’s no shrinking violet. Her daughter, the impressive Pearl (Lexi Underwood), soon takes a shine to Elena’s youngest son, Moody (Gavin Lewis). They become close cross-racial mates. However, when Pearl considers who to lose her virginity to, she rejects him for his moronish jock of an elder brother, Trip (Jordan Elsass), on the grounds that he’d be more experienced. The doing of deed was, unfortunately, more akin to Nikki G’s story and of course he cannot be blamed for any shortcomings, can he? By the final episode, though, he realises, to an extent, his failings and a bond does develop between the two, much to the chagrin of Moody.

This is only one strand of a fine product that focuses far more on the relationship between Elena and Mia, with both having an impressive back catalogue of secrets which they’d hate to have revealed. The inevitable happens. It is a step down from ‘Normal People’, but still a worthy binge.

Karl and his List – Music for These Times

‘In years to come, we may look back on this time as ‘The Age of Lists’. Facing the prospect of months in isolation, people looked forward to what they might watch, read and listen to and backwards over their favourites. One of the more popular iterations has been the ‘10 albums that inspired you’ meme on Facebook.’ The Age Spectrum June 13, 2020

karl quinn

Karl Quinn, in his piece ‘The Soundtrack to a Life’, realised that his selections* for the meme were not only just inspiration, but more. Being invited into the meme by lovely friends, here is my contribution. These are the soundtracks to my own life during the hiatus that COVID19 has incurred, in no particular order:-

Dylanesque – Bryan Ferry (2007) – I love both his Bobness and Ferry, so the combination of the two is irresistible.

Freya Ridings (2019) – In the early days of the pandemic’s visit I’d wake up edgy. This English songstress’ debut soothed.

Pay the Devil – Van Morrison (2006) – It was his 32nd studio album in which the Man goes country. He’s a constant.

I Still Do – Eric Clapton (2016) – any release from Ol’ Slowhand is to relish. This is the latest I’ve purchased so it’s the most frequent in my music machine.

Standard Songs for Average People – Mac Wiseman and John Prine (2007) – Mac passed last year and the bastard virus took John a couple of months ago. It remains a magic pairing.

Western Stars – Bruce Springsteen (2019) – He’s promised a new E Street, but until that this will just have to suffice – and boy, does it ever!

Come On Up to the House – Women Sing Waits (2019) – Tom’s unique rasp is replaced with honey as the best voices in Americana, and one Australian, do justice to his songs.

Charcoal Lane 25th Anniversary – Archie Roach(2015) – Containing the original, plus interpretations of its tunes, including the iconic ‘Took the Children Away’, by some of our best. He’s a living national treasure.

Great Country Songbook – Troy Casser-Daley and Adam Harvey (2013) I spent a wonderful evening with my beautiful daughter listening to these two live sing up a storm. So many of their (and my) heroes have gone now. But fear not – Willie’s still around.

Tides of a Teardrop – Mandolin Orange (2019) – It’s a sweet, sweet collection of songs from the North Carolina married duo – one of my latest obsessions.

These all helped me through – and, all things considered, personally it hasn’t been too tough. I know for so many, here and overseas, that has not been the case. Hope they have had some music with them too.

Normal people trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1JQuWxt3cE

Nikki Gemmell ‘Age of Consent’ = https://www.theaustralian.com.au/weekend-australian-magazine/why-the-sex-in-normal-people-is-a-breath-of-fresh-air/news-story/7fa839ca1aafda662dbdda302abdb2d2

‘Little Fires Everywhere’ trailer = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWGkX8ClhBI

Karl Quinn ‘Soundtrack to my Life’ article = https://www.smh.com.au/culture/music/the-soundtrack-to-a-life-my-top-10-albums-20200514-p54t14.html

* Karl’s list – Sladed? by Slade, Sound Affects by The Jam, Swingshift by Cold Chisel, Before Hollywood by The Go-Betweens, Doolittle by Pixies, The Stone Roses, Rubber Soul by The Beatles, 13 by Blur, Lemonade by Beyonce and Marquee Moon by Television.

Reboot 03

memoir, Television/DVD review

Terry and his Lists

Since retirement my brain has become somewhat befudged – befudged being a good way to describe it. Befuddled seems a tad extreme although, after I’ve said something completely obvious, stupid, random or provided a poor segue, the way Leigh looks at me I may have to revise the descriptive term for the harsher one.

So, along with my befudgement, lists have become essential to me. Top 10 lists have always been a part of my life – I love compiling them and comparing with others. I list books read, tele shows and movies watched; as well as what I send in the mail to my dear friends – otherwise I’d drive them mad with repetition. Probably do in any case. But a comprehensive shopping list, as with Terry Durack (see his column following), is new – a result of these times we’re living in.

terry durack

Gone is my daily romp into Claremont Village to pick up The Age and as a sideline, whatever I may need for that evening’s meal if it’s my turn to play chef. Now it’s a more complicated process of both Leigh and I compiling our own grocery requirements for our once only weekly excursion to the supermarket. I consult recipe books to assist. Leigh is more free range. Before we head off Leigh does a check to ensure we haven’t doubled up and Bob’s your uncle. We’ve taken to doing the necessary at Woolies in the Village early on a Monday morn. That place has so impressed with their commitment to social distancing, hygiene and big heartfelt smiles that it becomes a wholly pleasant experience.

There’s something, I don’t know, reassuring about a long grocery list. It’s quietly comforting to have it clutched in your hand as you perambulate the various aisles, after which checking it off to make sure all items are in the trolley. Them there’s the checkout – a longer process these days with disinfectant, followed by the only part that got me flustered, the self packing – now a thing of the past as we emerge out the other side of what for us wasn’t a pan- but more, in comparison to the chaos caused overseas, a mini-demic. It could have been so much worse without all our precautions. But more time allows for more communication with the guys and gals doing the scanning and that is another small joy in days that do have a habit of becoming very routine.

I’m wondering, as it becomes more certain that we have indeed got the plurry thing beaten, if Leigh and I will revert to our more ad hoc ways. We’re certainly spending far less time in supermarkets, but, dear me, how we have come to appreciate them so much more.

Dustyesky

rb01

Now and again ‘Australian Story’ (ABCiView) produces a tale that both amazes and touches the heart. This one is how a largely previously unheralded group of mostly bearded Mullumbimby gentlemen have warmed the frosticles off the denizens of the Land of Putin – a country that, despite what its leader and cronies may proclaim, is doing it hard with the CV. The episode examines how this winning of Russian hearts came about. The choir they formed, specialising in traditional tunes of the motherland, were, as a result, invited to the biggest May Day parade in the world. Coronavirus spoilt that, but they still got to perform digitally for that country’s major television network. And the locals lapped it up, along with their tanks and missiles. Amazing and well worth a gander. Go Dustyesky.

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit – Music for these Times

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‘Reunions’ is lovely, lovely stuff from the reformed Alabama crooner. He’s turned his life around and is now producing the best music of his career.

Paula and Billy

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If you’re a fan of the financial machinations of ‘Billions’ (Stan) then I have a great treat for you. It can be found on SBSonDemand, can that star attraction’s German equivalent, ‘Bad Banks’. There’s the same heartless, scheming, suited money-grabbing grubs to be found, dealing daily in squillions and the ruination of the lives of others. This time, though, it’s two women to the fore, including the youthful Jana, played with intensity by Paula Beer. It’s difficult to discern if this career driven young lady does indeed have the pumping organ in her body as she uses all her feminine wiles, tears and street smarts to get the deals done, no matter the cost. And she’s not above betrayal either. Ms Beer is certainly entrancing and I’m hooked, ripe for the second season.

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But sadly I’ll have to unhook myself from Billy Campbell. In Season 4 of the Canadian production, ‘Cardinal’, he appears even more grizzled and woebegone than before as he steels himself to come to terms with some particularly gruesome murders in the snow in this North American take on scandi-noir. All seasons have been addictive and bingeworthy. There has been his younger female sidekick as a possible love interest throughout, but will they get it together before this last season’s episodes run out? I won’t let the cat out of the bag, but in the final stanza there is room for hope that his world could become a little less dour. ‘Cardinal’ is highly recommended by this fan on the same platform as above.

A Tome to Re-emerge With

Dervla McTiernan’s ‘The Good Turn’ is a rip-snorter of a whodunnit. Her third novel is set in Ireland and I’ll be chasing up the Australian author’s other two. Read my review of it in the Blue Room.

David and the Angel

Daughter – ‘Mummy, what’s that smell.’

Mother – ‘It’s nature, darling.’

Daughter – ‘It’s like all the birds are wearing perfume.’

The smells of our forests, here on my island, are remarkable, unforgettable. You hanker for them if you’re away for a while. I imagine, as our wild places open up again as we reboot, many kids, long cooped up, would be asking similar questions about the majestic trees and creatures of the bush. No more so than those embarking on reacquainting themselves with the forests surrounding Tassie’s capital city, within eyesight of everyone in town, but for months forbidden.

In his long, but thoroughly readable and all-encompassing essay on the state of the forests, published in The Age’s Good Weekend magazine recently, journalist David Leser asks, ‘Exactly how loudly does she (Mother Nature) have to scream?’ And scream she did over this past summer. And then:-

Trump and Co – ‘There is no way we can shut everything down in order to lower emissions, slow climate change and protect the environment.’

Mother Nature – ‘Here’s a virus. Practise.’

We did and it worked. But, already, with our tentative re-emergence, the signs are not promising that we have learnt from the experience. We just have to.

Lesser’s report, entitled ‘Trunk Call’ (type author and title into Google), takes us from Victoria’s national parks to the Styx and the Weld locally. He explains how the world’s first nations were miles ahead of modern humankind in their husbandry of the vital asset; how the great fungal lines aid trees in ‘communication’ and he takes us on journeys with writers and activists trying to alert the planet as to how urgent action is. They, I suspect, but hope otherwise, will continue to struggle to be heard above the noise of the digital age. Unless we heed their advocacy, Mother Nature will give up on us and deliver a final cataclysmic blow. We have been warned.

Despite its length there’s plenty more food for thought with Leser’s writings here. And, to be fair, I know most of the world’s leaders are on to it – but they’ll need the same sort of help most have been giving to bring us through the pandemic. Trump, of course, is beyond help.

angel of the weld

The author also re-introduces us to the Angel of the Weld, Allana Beltran, who bought the attention of the planet to the situation within Tasmania’s old growth forests. What made us all sit up and take notice was attained by her positioning herself on a tripod, wreathed in feathers, at the entrance to the Weld. Back in 2007 the visual artist took her stand to ‘…pray for the forests and for people to realise what they are doing. I was ready to stand up for these ancient forests.’ In no uncertain terms she did.

It’s simple. If we can’t save the forests we can’t save the planet. The bastard virus has given us and Mother Nature some breathing space, but, by all indications the pause will not last much longer. In many parts of the world, though, wild places are breathing again. ‘Nature is speaking to us very loudly now. We’d do well to listen.’

So please seek out his article on line. Read it and ponder.

Terry Durack’s column on lists = https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/don-t-leave-home-without-the-shopping-list-it-s-too-dangerous-20200424-p54mym.html

Australian Story Dustyesky = https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-05-25/australian-fake-russian-choir-dustyesky-goes-viral-mullumbimby/12270670

Jason Isbell’s website = https://www.jasonisbell.com/

‘Bad Banks’ = https://www.sbs.com.au/ondemand/program/bad-banks

‘Cardinal’ Season 4 = https://www.sbs.com.au/guide/article/2020/05/21/revenge-dish-served-very-very-cold-final-season-cardinal

David Leser’s essay on the forests =https://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/environment/climate-change/call-of-the-wild-listen-up-people-time-is-running-out-20200424-p54mzq.html

Cold

memoir

‘Can we have the heating up Mr Lovell?’

‘No Jimmy, but I will allow you to go and get your school jumper.’

‘But I didn’t bring one!’

‘Tough.’

cold-boy

It’s been bloody cold in Hobart this past week. Most are rugged up in the Tassie tuxedo – ie, puffer jackets – as befits snow down to the lower levels on kunanyi. I don’t possess one. Does that make me un-Tasmanian? But I have multiple layers on today with, thankfully, the city providing comfy warmth at its indoor locations. But it’s not only brittle-frozen Canberra at this time of year that has them, Mr Glover. We have that species of humanity here in Hobs as well. Men usually, but an occasional member of the fairer gender, pretending there’s no icing in the mountain and it’s balmy mid-summer. They are dressed for the outback in shorts, tees and sometimes even thongs. They strut around, thinking all passers-by must be so in admiration of them for being so overwhelmingly Tassie-tough. What the normal sensible denizens really think about them is not fit for these pages. There are some, I know, who have a radically different tolerance to the cold than I. Some of my nearest and dearest can somehow withstand severe frostiness. Most I fear, though, are all show; the grown up versions of young Jimmy from my teaching days.

I watched those foolhardy lads, rarely girls, descend from their buses whilst on early morning duty with the frost on the ground. Their goosebumps were the size of Mt Myrtle overlooking my school. They were sort of holding themselves very tightly, as if that would provide some minor relief for the uber-cold they must be feeling. Attired, they were, in grey shorts topped only by short sleeve shirts over bare skin – no singlet. It was pointless asking where their jumpers were and no doubt, back home, they’d be just as stubborn against any parental entreaty to rug up. At door opening time you bet they’d be the first in, standing shivering under the classroom heaters as they revved up for the day. If the room had a thermostat it’d be up to the max by the time you made it to start your teaching day. Then the room would be like a Scandinavian sauna, causing you to dispense with a few of your own layers and even then be sweatily overheating until the room eventually cooled to tolerable levels.

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So when Jimmy asked, I was unsympathetic. I wonder, as an adult, is he still parading around his home town in mid-winter dressed for high summer at Bondi? I ruminate as to whether his abode’s power bills are astronomical – or does he guiltily ram on the layers once he’s indoors, no longer feeling the urge to flaunt his Tassie he-manism to all and sundry.

Yep, I know I’m soft. I need to be coddled in warmth when the temperature drops to single digits. And don’t get me started on those naked maniacs who brave the Derwent come the solstice dawn. I bet, Mr Glover, your Canberra has nothing to match that nude madness.

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Canberra’s winters by Richard Glover = https://www.smh.com.au/national/richard-glover-frozen-stiff-in-an-apparently-hot-land-20190702-p523c8.html

Pigeon

memoir

It was your former friend’s older brother’s pigeon coops that did it for me, Mark Mordue. Bought back those hazy memories of an old mate, now lost to me in time. It seems to me the ‘sport’ of pigeon racing is from another era. It may still have its devotees, as a backyard hobby of sorts, but are they still sent to the skies to compete with other coops? If that’s the case it’s wide of my orb these days. But way back then I was introduced to this proud pal’s pigeon-house and its denizens. I cannot look back with any degree of confidence, but I suspect each bird had its name with any champion homers treated as feathered royalty. I probably held several of them and cooed my amazement at their feats. This was certainly pre-uni for me – the late Sixties, maybe in my matriculation years, maybe before even those. I know, during the two years post-Grade 10, I had other friends and my interest in girls had awoken. Leaving my regional area for the capital, to train to be a teacher, ended this particular relationship – that is for sure.

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We’ll call him Rob. It wasn’t his real name. He never went by his real name. He was somewhat older. Now much is lost, but he chose, for whatever reason, to hang out with myself and other younger guys. There were a group of us – a fellow from the housing commission flats down on North Terrace; perhaps my brother and some of his cobbers. It’s all so vague in my synapses. Despite his greater years, it didn’t seem Rob had any interest in the opposite gender. There was never a sign of any girlfriend at that stage. Maybe he was otherwise inclined, but there was never a hint of that either. Did he drive a car? Was that, in turn, our attraction to him? Of course, a mode of transport meant freedom to us who then relied on walking to get from A to B. But I have no memory of there being so. He definitely had a boat which he left on the sand at West Beach for much of the months of warmer weather. He’d row a number of us out to sea in it. No life jackets – and I could hardly swim a stroke. He took us so far out that the sunbathers back on shore were mere dots. On some days we’d fish from it and we also beach netted. On other days we’d take our rods down to the wharves; to Ocean Pier, readily accessible to us in those times. On the seaward side there was a narrow ledge, high above the briny, from which we’d dangle our hooks. Heaven help me if I fell in. Any catch we’d proudly take home for our mothers to cook – even dozy old cod. On occasion we’d toss out couta lines. What ever happened to couta? Like pigeons they don’t seem to figure, but then they were prized.

Tennis was another activity I engaged in with him. There were old bitumen courts behind the school where Burnie Makers now imposes itself. We were all reasonable players and took it quite seriously. It was fun.

Rob’s parents owned one of the town’s corner grocery stores. It’s long gone, as are all the others of my childhood – Redmans, the BP Roadhouse, the Terminus Cafe where my father alighted from driving a Green Coachliner down the highway from Launceston each evening, the West Beach Shop.

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After reading Mondue’s ‘One for the Boys’ I wondered what became of Rob. When I returned to my home town, to continue my career in education, there was no re-connection – not even an encounter similar to the columnist’s that I can bring to mind. And that would be strange given the relatively small size of the place and the long years I spent in the schools around the locality. But by then I was married and was eventually a father. I never hung around at the attractions of my growing up. Maybe he still did. Did Rob marry and produce offspring? Did he move on to the bright lights of a big city somewhere? And now, these days, is he even still with us? Questions I cannot answer, probably never will. In any case, I trust he’s had a good, fulfilling life.

He was kind to us younger boys. We felt entirely safe in his company. I never smoked, but I seem to think he may of done. I don’t remember any indulging in alcohol or, heaven forbid, drugs. All in all it seemed quite an innocent time without the distractions of today’s digital world. We were out and about, not stuck in front of screens, at least until ‘The Flintstones’ or ‘Bonanza’ came on in the evenings. But was that innocence just a veneer? It may have been for all I know. So long ago now – with so much in front of me. I’d forgotten about Rob until I read that column. I shouldn’t have.

pigeon

Mark Mordue’s column = https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/childhood-friendship-is-a-beautiful-thing-that-slips-away-20190514-p51n97.html