Sunday night’s showing of the Rebecca Gibney vehicle ‘The Killing Field’ did not help. It had a leading actress, seemingly striving to be the Aussie version of the Scandi-noirs’ Saga Norén or Sarah Lund, failing dismally in this punter’s opinion – Gibney is simply not in the same league. Included were some happenings that, embarrassingly, even surpassed the illogic of some of the more daffy American police procedurals. It was a bit of a stinker. Before you could snap your fingers our ‘brilliant’ blonde heroine had a hit-list of sleazeball males as long as your arm, all possessing the necessary ingredients to classify them as suspects for the serial murders of under-age girls. The town was choko with them. Their graves had recently been discovered within the small rural community’s boundaries. Were there any decent males to be found in Mingara? The school’s oily principal was definitely in the frame, as was the slavering fire chief. What a coincidence it was that both were visiting another town on the same day that one of the victims was snatched in it – how convenient. These two and others were just waiting to get their hands down the panties of nubile teens in a tele-movie that stretched believability to the limit. This tepid effort followed on from the excellent ABC/BBC series Janet King and Broadchurch – very classy offerings, but the principal was the same. Some of the most trusted defenders of the law, in the former, were in Janet’s sights as members of a ring of slimy paedophiles. The British effort even took me away from Friday night footy it was so addictive as David Tennant tracked down which of his small town’s shady characters were responsible for the defiling and death of a young lad. Then there’s Rolf, the Catholic church, Salvos, scout masters – this list is also as long as one’s arm. No longer are crimes of sexual perversity committed against defenceless children swept under the carpet – not a week goes by without some individual or organisation being the brunt of sensational headlines in the tabloids in much the same way as those ‘odious gays and their foetid practices’ were last century.

Please don’t misjudge where I am coming from with this. As a doting grandfather of an exquisitely beautiful two year old I would attempt to rip to shreds any predatory male that lay a finger on her, heaven forbid. And pure evil like Jimmy Saville should have been subjected to sharia law had he been still with us. What a cockroach – I never did get the Poms’ adoration of this odd creature before he was ‘outed’.

No, its not that. With so much bad news on the topic about, on our screens and in print, it’s only natural that mothers like Tracey Spicer go to the nth degree to helicopter their progeny against what is even the slightest possibility of something ghastly being perpetrated. Nevertheless, even if I agreed with almost every point made in her article ‘I Don’t Want My Kids Next to a Man on a Plane’, it still made me crabby and frustrated as a member of the male gender.

Of course Tracey covers herself by meekly scribing ‘…sure, not all men are paedophiles.’ Couldn’t she at least have stated that, despite the impression created by ‘The Killing Fields’ et al, that the overwhelming majority of us certainly aren’t and abhor the thought? Poor Johnny McGirr, forced to change seats on a Virgin flight when a computer placed his bottom next to an unattended under-ager Automatically above his head was raised a sign – ‘Potential Child Molester’. He was presumed guilty because of that y chromosome. I imagine, had it been me, I would have been mortified. How soul destroying to be labelled such a risk to the young and vulnerable. Yet I understand why Virgin and other airlines have such a policy – there’s always the ‘what if’ question and equally predatory lawyers out there waiting to feast on any bid for resulting compensation. It is also revelatory that Ms Spicer is protective of her own side of the ledger, promptly informing us of the minuscule percentage of women who are like offenders – only eight in a hundred, don’t you know? Despite her children recently making a transcontinental flight without her and retaining smiles on their faces at the end of the journey, she was still not satisfied. Although praising Virgin for their placement and treatment she ‘…was disappointed I had no choice about where they’d be seated.’

             Tracey Spicer

These days I get nervous around children’s playgrounds or beaches with a camera in hand when my sole intention is capturing the adventurings of that little braveheart who is my granddaughter. I hate feeling like that. I wonder where it will end. Will there come a time I will need a police check to carry a camera out in the open, or indeed to fly? Will male teachers one day be unable to ply their trade in schools until their pupils come of age? Will adult males be forbidden in the scouting movement. Perhaps that is a tad too extreme, but what about the case of a male wrongly accused on the word of a child? Check out that superb Danish movie ‘The Hunt’ to see the results of that.

I praise the media for making the world a safer place for our children, even if Ms Spicer contrarily laments that the world no longer engenders ‘…a sense of adventure…’ for her offspring. Yes, males are to blame for that too. I do know what she is banging on about is far too important to be merely a case of male bashing. By gee, though, reading this, I do feel for my gender.

Ms Spicer’s Opinion Piece =

Sunday night’s showing of the Rebecca Gibney vehicle ‘The Killing Field’ did not help. It had a leading actress, seemingly striving to be the Aussie version of the Scandi-noirs’ Saga Norén or Sarah Lund, failing dismally in this punter’s opinion – Gibney is simply not in the same league. Included were some happenings that, embarrassingly, even surpassed the illogic of some of the more daffy American police procedurals. It was a bit of a stinker. Before you could snap your fingers our ‘brilliant’ blonde heroine had a hit-list of sleazeball males as long as your arm, all possessing the necessary ingredients to classify them as suspects for the serial murders of under-age girls. The town was choko with them. Their graves had recently been discovered within the small rural community’s boundaries. Were there any decent males to be found in Mingara? The school’s oily principal was definitely in the frame, as was the slavering fire chief. What a coincidence it was that both were visiting another town on the same day that one of the victims was snatched in it – how convenient. These two and others were just waiting to get their hands down the panties of nubile teens in a tele-movie that stretched believability to the limit. This tepid effort followed on from the excellent ABC/BBC series Janet King and Broadchurch – very classy offerings, but the principal was the same. Some of the most trusted defenders of the law, in the former, were in Janet’s sights as members of a ring of slimy paedophiles. The British effort even took me away from Friday night footy it was so addictive as David Tennant tracked down which of his small town’s shady characters were responsible for the defiling and death of a young lad. Then there’s Rolf, the Catholic church, Salvos, scout masters – this list is also as long as one’s arm. No longer are crimes of sexual perversity committed against defenceless children swept under the carpet – not a week goes by without some individual or organisation being the brunt of sensational headlines in the tabloids in much the same way as those ‘odious gays and their foetid practices’ were last century.

Please don’t misjudge where I am coming from with this. As a doting grandfather of an exquisitely beautiful two year old I would attempt to rip to shreds any predatory male that lay a finger on her, heaven forbid. And pure evil like Jimmy Saville should have been subjected to sharia law had he been still with us. What a cockroach – I never did get the Poms’ adoration of this odd creature before he was ‘outed’.

No, its not that. With so much bad news on the topic about, on our screens and in print, it’s only natural that mothers like Tracey Spicer go to the nth degree to helicopter their progeny against what is even the slightest possibility of something ghastly being perpetrated. Nevertheless, even if I agreed with almost every point made in her article ‘I Don’t Want My Kids Next to a Man on a Plane’, it still made me crabby and frustrated as a member of the male gender.

Of course Tracey covers herself by meekly scribing ‘…sure, not all men are paedophiles.’ Couldn’t she at least have stated that, despite the impression created by ‘The Killing Fields’ et al, that the overwhelming majority of us certainly aren’t and abhor the thought? Poor Johnny McGirr, forced to change seats on a Virgin flight when a computer placed his bottom next to an unattended under-ager Automatically above his head was raised a sign – ‘Potential Child Molester’. He was presumed guilty because of that y chromosome. I imagine, had it been me, I would have been mortified. How soul destroying to be labelled such a risk to the young and vulnerable. Yet I understand why Virgin and other airlines have such a policy – there’s always the ‘what if’ question and equally predatory lawyers out there waiting to feast on any bid for resulting compensation. It is also revelatory that Ms Spicer is protective of her own side of the ledger, promptly informing us of the minuscule percentage of women who are like offenders – only eight in a hundred, don’t you know? Despite her children recently making a transcontinental flight without her and retaining smiles on their faces at the end of the journey, she was still not satisfied. Although praising Virgin for their placement and treatment she ‘…was disappointed I had no choice about where they’d be seated.’

These days I get nervous around children’s playgrounds or beaches with a camera in hand when my sole intention is capturing the adventurings of that little braveheart who is my granddaughter. I hate feeling like that. I wonder where it will end. Will there come a time I will need a police check to carry a camera out in the open, or indeed to fly? Will male teachers one day be unable to ply their trade in schools until their pupils come of age? Will adult males be forbidden in the scouting movement. Perhaps that is a tad too extreme, but what about the case of a male wrongly accused on the word of a child? Check out that superb Danish movie ‘The Hunt’ to see the results of that.

I praise the media for making the world a safer place for our children, even if Ms Spicer contrarily laments that the world no longer engenders ‘…a sense of adventure…’ for her offspring. Yes, males are to blame for that too. I do know what she is banging on about is far too important to be merely a case of male bashing. By gee, though, reading this, I do feel for my gender.

Ms Spicer’s Opinion Piece = .http://www.smh.com.au/travel/i-dont-want-my-kids-sitting-next-to-a-man-on-a-plane-20140424-375z6.html

‘Good for you Dad. Go for it and don’t care what anybody else thinks. It’s your life and she’s cool. She’s sorta like a second gran to me anyway. Who cares that she’s older than you? It’s none of their beeswax. Mr Fank’s gone, hasn’t he? There’s nothing stoppin’ ya now. After Mum and all that, you deserve some happiness. That’s what I say.’

That his daughter Shayla was okay about it meant the world to him. He had no notion what he’d have done had it been otherwise. And his own Mum – well she couldn’t be happier for him, even if she was more than a bit bemused by the fact that her only son was ‘doing it’ with her best mate. She thought it was all terrific, considering what they’d both been through. She told him that – told him he had her blessing. She reckoned her friend was coping so much better in recent weeks. She’d innocently put that down to the husband’s sudden departure, she had informed him with a raised eyebrow and a silly grin. He owed her for so much, his old dear. He knew his mum was the same age as his new love, but he tried not to dwell too much on that. He felt like it was all a fresh start, particularly after that game-breaking letter in the mail informing him that Bunnings, about to open up shop in his battered community, was prepared to take him on as a mature-aged nurseryman’s assistant. This was under some government scheme to get employment going again in Burnie. The town had taken so many hits in recent times. He hadn’t had a sniff of work since the richest man in the district had laid him off, as well as dozens of others, a couple of Christmases ago. He was feeling very frisky these days, making love at the drop of a hat – something that had also been missing in his life – not that it had been all that earth shattering during those years he was with Firecracker. With this vibrant lady he felt warm and fuzzy – to be having sex again – real loving, gentle, mutually satisfying sex – what a beautiful thing that was. He hadn’t felt like a proper man for so long – now he was fit to burst with the wonder of it all. When he thought back to where he was only eighteen months ago to now – well maybe he could even move out from his mum’s, not that living with her was all that bad. He sort of thought that his wonderful woman might invite him to come live with her down the track, but he wasn’t about to rush it. It was all still fairly tentative – they were still getting used to each other. It seemed he spent half his life nowadays around at hers in any case. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to ‘officially’ move in, but he had time – plenty of time. And to think, he had known her since he was knee high.

It didn’t last beyond that Christmas Day back in ’12 – his marriage, that is. A couple of mornings beforehand he’d found out that he’d lost his job. It was always at the back of his mind that he would, such was the economy in his part of the world. It was always his default position – that his luck couldn’t last forever. After all, that’d been the pattern of his life to date. Even though, in his more optimistic moments, he thought things had turned for the better, he could never really rid himself of the dread of another failure being just up ahead. He knew what was coming, that morning, when the ‘suits’ called the workforce together on the last working day of the year. They were duly and perfunctorily informed that a sizeable number would not becoming back in the new year. He knew he’d be tapped on the shoulder – and sure enough, he was told to clear out his locker at the end of the day. He foolishly stayed on for break-up drinks. He wished he hadn’t. He’d been off the grog for a while trying to tidy up his act for Shayla. He stayed because the worst bit was still to come – facing her with the news. Not Shayla – but his wife. A sick dread enveloped him back then. The telling still haunted him, in light of what happened afterwards, to this day. He never wanted that feeling again. Now, though, he could finally put all of it behind him.

He remembered looking out the window later that same morning, watching her depart, Shayla being dragged in her wake, howling. She hadn’t yet finished screaming and shouting at him in that foul language she used when matters didn’t go her way. His mates had labelled her a firecracker because of her vicious temper. Many of them had witnessed her volcanic eruptions first hand. She had browbeaten him for most of his time with her – she emasculated him. He loved that word – emasculated. Had to look it up in the dictionary when he’d first come across it after the split. It was the perfect word for what she’d done to him. Her tirade was going on, he knew, even as she opened the car door, even though he couldn’t really hear her now. He saw some bearded guy at the house opposite turn and stare as he was about to knock on the door. He didn’t know him, nor the couple that lived there in his Shorewell street. He’d watched the latter, seen the consideration towards each other in the way that they lived – knew that what they experienced was nothing like the relationship he shared with Firecracker. He envied them. He saw the guy shake his head, turn, ring the doorbell and be let in. He looked back to see his wife roar off down the street. He couldn’t really give a hoot about her – but Shayla? That was another matter. He spent the rest of the afternoon on mowing and tidying up around the garden to take his mind off it.

He didn’t hear from Merryl for a few days, so by late on the afternoon of Christmas Eve he knew he had to make the first move. That was something else he’d learnt. Give her a few days to calm down, she’d return and it would be a little better for a while. It wasn’t the first time she’d skedaddled off to her mum’s – so he knew where to ring. She answered and he asked if she was planning a visit the next day so Shayla could receive her pressies. He did actually think, when she arrived that Christmas Day, that there was some hope. Unusually he was kissed when she came in. Together they watched as their daughter discovered that her dreams had come true – he’d been able to afford, this year, the bike Shayla’d coveted. Merryl had taken his hand as they watched her ride it up and down the street for most of the afternoon. They had an evening meal of roast chook and vegies, spending the evening in front of the tele, sharing a bottle of cheap sparkly. That night they made love for the first time in aeons. He was half pissed and he was glad. He felt quite pleased these days with how he had trimmed down as a result of his gym work. In a sober state he would have found the way she had let herself go a difficulty he may have succumbed to. Still, it felt okay after so long. Was it possible, he thought, as he drifted off into the land of nod that, just maybe, it’d all get better?

He quickly had his answer. The next day it all changed. She was back! She arrived early. They’d just emerged from under the blankets and already she was ringing the doorbell. The same routine followed. He’d had years of it. In her mother marched, plonked herself down at the table and pulled out her fags. Firecracker couldn’t get to her usual chair opposite quick enough. She took the offered cigarette, lit up and away they went at their bitchin’, as he called it. He took himself out of it, headed off with Shayla and her bike down to the park where they stayed till tea time. On their return he found her mother still there, a cask of cheap plonk between them, together with several ashtrays of butts. Both were tanked. Merryl ordered him off to get fish ‘n’ chips for the evening meal. When the mother eventually left, staggering through the front door, he knew he had to have it out with Merryl, even if he was heading for dangerous territory. He couldn’t continue to live like this any more. He politely asked if she could take the bitchin’ – although he didn’t use that word – around to her mother’s house and do their drinking and fagging there. As he half expected, she let him have it, all guns blazing. He didn’t stay to listen, didn’t want to row with her yet again. He left. He had a mother too.

And he’d been with his mum ever since. Early on Merryl would ring every few days, asking him to return for his daughter’s sake. He’d simply put to her his original proposition. She wouldn’t budge and nor would he. Despite missing his girl, he was determined to see it through. Eventually his mother brokered some weekend visits from Shayla. This, in truth, made him happy enough. He kept himself active at the gym; watched his daughter’s weekend sports; took long walks around the town. Try as his might, there were just no jobs about for someone of his limited skills. He tried to keep positive. Drink-wise, he remained off the plonk – relegating himself to only a couple of beers when the footy was on. Often his mum’s oldest friend would join them to watch whatever was the match of the day.

He’d known this person since his days as a toddler, visiting his mum at her workplace, a Greek milk bar/take away down in the town. His mother had been employed by the lovely couple that ran it from the day she left Year 10 at fifteen. She quickly became very pally with the owner’s daughter who worked there, as well, after school. They were soon melded at the hip, as his mum always reminisced; that is, until her mate met Mr Frank. The couple later wed, with his mum as chief bridesmaid – a situation that was reversed when his his own father came on the scene. His dad was now long deceased. After he and his sister were born, his mother worked with her friend in the various shops the latter managed around the place, after the demise of the family business. When Mr Frank was at the footy or away, she was a constant visitor. He had always liked her. She was bright and lively, always giving him a hug when she saw him. Without fail, she always called him Lad.

Later on, when he’d grown and had become aware of such matters, he thought, for an old dame, she was pretty sexy compared to his own mum – a thought he very much kept to himself. She was at his marriage to Firecracker, but he’d seen little of her as his years of wedded unbliss stuttered along. Once he’d moved back into his old room all that changed. His mum worked as a carer these days – a job she loved, helping the elderly and disabled around the North West Coast. Several evenings a week she and her friend would get together around a few drinks and yak away. Neither smoked and it was ‘happy talk’, in the main, whilst he was around – so different to the ‘bitchin’ of the life he’d left behind. The women were both of the ‘half full’ nature.

Shayla started spending more and more time with him as well. Most days she’d hop off the bus down the road and visit for an hour or so to debrief before heading for home. She reckoned ‘Moanin Annie’, as she called her grandmother, was getting worse – taking her mother with her down into the pits of self-pity and aggrievement. Soon Shayla started staying on for meals as all they ate at home were takeaways from the local shop. He shared cooking duties with his mother – he enjoyed giving his daughter nourishing meals. Shayla had always been health conscious and knew a diet of grease was of little benefit, let alone the fug of cigarette smoke that pervaded where she and her mother resided. By now it was Shayla’s first year at high school – the same one he’d attended, up on the hill, all those years ago. At the recent sports day she was under-13 track champion. His girl was also travelling very sweetly in class, according to her teachers at the parents’ meeting he’d attended alone. He was so proud of her, his Shayla. She would never be like her mother and she, as well, inspired him to improve on his new found fitness too. As for running, she outrun the wind and it was beyond him where she attained that ability from. He loved pounding the pavements with her; he loved being with her, full stop.

Six months or so into his boarding with his mother he realised that Raissa has ceased her visiting – that he and her mother hadn’t seen her for weeks. When he asked about this, he was informed by his mum of Mr Frank’s heart troubles – of how he’d collapsed down in the town and had to go to Hobart for an operation. She and her hubby were back in Burnie now, with Raissa having to spend most of her time caring for him, having given up work to do so. When she eventually turned up, he was shocked by the change in her. She was noticeably thinner but, even more worrying, seemed to have lost all her bounce – that zest for life he so admired. For the first couple of visits she spent much of her time sobbing in his mother’s bedroom. On one occasion, when he opened the door to her, Raissa had grabbed him in a bear hug and stated, ‘I know now how you felt, Lad.’

After she left his mother confided that Mr Frank had told Raissa about his affair with a woman in Melbourne, just before he went under the knife. Mr F was evidently scared he wouldn’t come out the other side and wanted to come clean about his relationship with a woman called Judy. Raissa, he was told, thought the trips were all about the footy. It seems Mr Frank had been having his liaison for a decade or more.

As the following weeks rolled on by, Raissa spent more and more time in their home – as much of the downtime she could spare from her role as her husband’s carer – even coming around when his own mum was at work. He’d make her tea and they’d chat away – about Collingwood’s progress, Shayla and her own kids – whatever entered their minds. Slowly at first, but increasingly, it seemed she was recovering her vivacity. He remembers the day she said to him, ‘You’re good for me Lad. You take my mind off it.’ She never talked about Mr Frank, but from his mother he knew that all wasn’t well on that score. He had recovered okay from his health scare, but according to what Raissa had told his source, he was a morose shell of his former self. Raissa, his mum reported, had tried to forgive him for his fling across the Strait, but she also reckoned her hubby was pining for whoever it was over there. Raissa, in her heart, knew Mr Frank just couldn’t let the other woman go.

He wasn’t sure of how it happened, or why, but one day he found himself opening up to her about how, as a teenager, he had thought that, for an older woman, he found her just so sexy – like that Sophia Loren he’d see in the magazines of the time. ‘Do you still think that now, after all these years?’ she had queried him. Well that threw him! He didn’t know what to say – she was his mother’s best friend and all that. It had never occurred to him to examine his feelings for her these days. ‘I can see that I’ve embarrassed you, Lad. Don’t worry about it. I’m just a silly old woman. I mean no harm and don’t concern yourself, I’ll never try to cotton on you. I know your mum’s told you I’ve been having a bit of a hard time of it lately. With my hubby the way he is, I guess I’m just in need of a little TLC. We get on so well – please don’t let this change anything! Okay?’ When he nodded, she carried on, ‘Now Lad, how do you reckon those Magpies are going to perform at the weekend? Can we do those Roo boys?’

From that point on, though, he did give his feelings for her some of his attention. What she said had shocked him, it’s true – but the more he examined it, the more he realised it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant shock. She was quieter now when visiting, always making sure that his mother was in residence. Sadly, he felt the dynamics between them had changed. Now, even if he had wanted to do something about what she had put into his mind, it seemed the moment had passed. A couple of times, in her presence, he took the time to look at her – really look at her. This made him realise that, by his reaction to her question, he had missed an opportunity for something. What that something was, he wasn’t quite sure.

So it was a surprise when she turned up on the doorstep on a day when his old dear wasn’t at home. She stood there, red eyed and reported to him, ‘He’s gone. Gone to her,’ and promptly burst into tears. Then, perplexingly, her sobs turned into chortles of laughter. ‘Silly old bugger. He’ll find out the grass isn’t greener over there and if he wants to come back, with his tail between his legs – if he thinks I’ll have him back then, he’s got another bloody thing coming! That strumpet over there – she’s welcome to him. She’ll find he’s pretty clapped out anyway. Ah, that feels better, getting that off my chest. Now, how the hell are you Lad?’ He gestured for her to come inside and she accepted, heading off to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Once they settled down at the table with their cuppas, she continued on, ‘Well I guess I can get on with my own life now, see what’s around the corner. I haven’t got to pander to him any more. By the way, Lad, I am sorry about being so forward the other week. I don’t know what came over me. It was the loneliness talking, I guess.’

Lad wasn’t going to let this moment pass. He confessed to her that he had indeed been thinking about it all too and that, yes, he stated with a nervous laugh, he did still find her sexy. He told her it was perhaps in a different way – not as fervently as in his youth, but yep, to him she was still a gorgeous woman. He reached out his hand and she took it, then his mum’s bestie leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss on the lips. Speak of the devil, just as he was thinking about his next move, he heard the key in the door – his mother had returned.

The next day she was at his door again, – but this time it was a different Raissa waiting to be let in. There were no red eyes. She had obviously spent a great deal of time on her appearance – tasteful make-up, accentuating her eyes; a smart dress, accentuating an ample amount of cleavage. She was definitely sexy now. He felt all that teenage fervour return. He knew this time how this encounter was going to end. He’d make sure of that. ‘Not bad for an old bird,’ she giggled as he took her hand and led her to his bedroom.

After she’d departed he felt a combination of elation and guilt – not guilt for the act itself, but because of the relationship Raissa had with his mother. Later on, he put that to one side and took to cyberspace, googling Sophia Loren. ‘Yes’, he thought, ‘Raissa stacks up pretty well against the older version of Sophia. And gee, it felt so good with her!’

They both agreed it would be safer to conduct their tryst at her place and he took to visiting her most days. When Raissa did show up and his mother was in residence, he could see that nothing had changed as far as that relationship was concerned. But he knew keeping stum couldn’t last, so one day he took the bit between his teeth, sat his mother down and confessed. His mother was a tad stunned at first, but then said that she’d figured something was afoot – that he had a spring in his step for the first time in ages. His mum then went to the blower to ring Raissa. She stayed on the phone for quite a while – a long chat with plenty of laughter. Lad uncrossed his fingers behind his back. It’d gone well.

The job coming up was the icing on the cake. With it and Raissa, maybe, just maybe, his life would turn out okay after all. Perhaps this time it wasn’t a false dawn. He wouldn’t have his cherished daughter forever. She’d go out and make a name for herself – of that he was certain. He suspected that eventually Raissa would move on too. She kept going on about how she was too old for him – but when she wrapped her body around his – so voluptuous, caramel coloured and warm – it certainly didn’t feel that way to him. She’d put the weight back on she’d lost around the time of her husband’s illness and looked all the better, to him, for doing so. She, though, complained about becoming a contented old cow. He knew she would never let herself get to the size of his now officially former wife. Raissa was too proud for that!

And then there was the tucker – the glorious Greek food she virtually force-fed him with. He was working doubly hard at the gym so as not to go back to what he was like before – and each weekend he’d be out pounding the bitumen with Shayla. Together they’d often enter fun runs, as well as, of course, the annual Burnie Ten.

More and more he was spending nights at Raissa’s place. He loved it. After he had had his fill of her stupendous cooking and they’d shared a glass or two – no more – of red, Raissa would excuse herself, go to her bedroom and put on something satiny and slinky. They’d settle down to some tele or snuggle up to some music. When the time came she would take his hand and guide him into the bedroom and undress him. Invariably she would whisper into his ear, ‘Now Lad, tell me once again about Sophia Loren. Tell me how like her I am. Tell me how sexy I am, just one more time.’

The prequel to this tale = http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2012/12/a-fairy-tale-not-of-new-york.html

You can see her for yourself – up there in Gallery 9, NGV (National Gallery of Victoria), St Kilda Road. You yourself can see how stunningly beautiful she is, this sun-dappled beauty – this free spirit. She existed, caught in time by the painter, in that golden age – the time before La Belle Epoque was bought to a crunching halt by the darkness of the Great War. I don’t know for sure, but I reckon I have a fair handle on who she might be – this uninhibited maiden captured so tantalisingly at the height of her glory.

But for my viewing she had moved. As I entered that room at the Fed Square NGV, she caught my eye first and drew me towards her. In a room of luminous works of art she exuded a luminosity unmatched by her fellows on those four walls. She was part of the ‘Australian Impressionists in France’ exhibition, held in conjunction with the ‘Monet’s Garden’ show down the road. For me she even outshone the master’s water-lilies! They were both sublime, these two Winter Masterpieces – such showings being a highlight of Yarra City during the chilly months. So, on that wall, despite the best efforts of Condor, Bunny, Streeton et al, she was queen. Nothing they produced during their Continental years held a candle to her. So magical was she that the NGV used her in all the pre-publicity for the show – but nothing matched seeing her in the flesh in her gallery. She owned it!

Of course discovering the creator of such a vision was the easy bit in quenching my desire to discover more about her. E Phillips Fox is not a huge name amongst the pantheon of our great coverers of canvas, but he is starting to come into his own. The E is for Emanuel. He is best recalled for his epic, iconic ‘Landing of Captain Cook’ – to my mind pedestrian dross compared to her. He was also the hubby of one of our foremost female artists of the period, Ethel Carrick. There’s was a great love story. Fox didn’t see out the war, although he was never a participant, dying in Melbourne of lung cancer (the world was full of chain smokers back then too) in 1915. Well before that the couple had split – supposedly because of Ethel’s attachment to Theosophy, the Scientology of the times. She, as well, found it difficult on their return to Oz in 1913 coping with the claustrophobic nature of his antipodean family. She rushed from Sydney to be at his bedside when hearing of his imminent demise, championing his abilities with the brush till her dying breath in 1952. Arguably she was the better practitioner, but to my non-trained eyes nothing she produced measured up to her husband’s depiction of another stunning woman of his close acquaintance.

The marriage of Fox and Carrick was happiest when the couple were ensconced in France – in Montparnasse, the heart of intellectual and artistic life in Paris at the time. Their abode there possessed a small garden where Fox painted some of his atmospheric images of women, particularly in the act of reading. Women engrossed in a book sold well at the time. We know that his model for many of these was the woman I suspect to be her. Ethel also painted her and she was another Ethel – Ethel Anderson.

She has been recorded as the resident muse for some of his clothed oeuvre – works such as ‘On the Balcony’, ‘The Green Parasol’ and ‘Nasturtiums’. The latter work was recently purchased by the Art Gallery of NSW in remembrance of Margaret Olley. Edmund Capon stated that the late grand dame of Aussie art would have adored the choice – but we’re off track!

A stunningly beautiful auburn haired, green eyed beauty, Anderson was first a pupil of Fox’s – it’s interesting to note that, although men still dominated the world of art back then, women far outnumbered them as pupils. She and Fox later became great mates, it being the artist who introduced her to her future husband, fellow dauber Penleigh Boyd. The surname is a famous one in Australian artistic circles. They later produced a son, Robin, who dominated the architectural landscape of the country in later life, writing the seminal ‘The Great Australian Ugliness’. Arthur Boyd was a nephew. As an artist Penleigh was mainly a landscapist, but it is conceivable that in that millieu Ethel – maybe even both Ethels – would be liberated enough to divest themselves of clothing in the name of art. As to Ethel Boyd, comparing the pictures – there would seem a certain similarity to the model who posed as the voluptuous sun dappled beauty, shading her eyes in the French soleil, with the one in the aforementioned trio of works. It seemed the same model featured in other of Fox’s nudes – some quite intimate. The hair’s the giveaway – although in the days pre-August, 1914 women of that hued hair were favoured as models – so I could be completely askew in my thinking.

Ethel and Penleigh married in 1912, witnessed by Fox and Rupert Bunny – could she have also been the model for the latter’s ‘The Sun Bath’? Ethel was ten years senior to her husband, with their marriage ultimately not being any more successful than that between the other Ethel and Fox. At one stage Penleigh returned to Melbourne, leaving his wife in Old Blighty. Once the marital shackles were off, he promptly proceeded to have an affair with Minna Schuler, the daughter of the editor of the Age! When his family eventually joined him in Oz, there was constant quarrelling, not letting up till the day Penleigh died in 1923, as a result of a motor accident. Like her namesake, Ethel continued on till a ripe old age, not passing until 1961. So, if Ethel is she, this beautiful creature was still alive in my lifetime. By this stage her greatest claim to fame was as a writer of successful radio plays.

I suppose those with the time/money/desire could more forensically examine the sources and deduce whether I am on the right track or otherwise. For now, though, that sun dappled goddess of ‘The Bathers’ is, for me, Ethel Boyd nee Anderson. She was from a time that has now long passed, but I’ll always remember seeing her hung on that wall as if it were yesterday. I do wonder if the two Ethels were friends, or at least remained in contact down through the years – remembering a tiny garden in a Parisian suburb from whence the sun will shine on forever.

Postscript – This morning I travelled into the city to view the ‘Capital and Country’ travelling exhibition at the TMAG – Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery. It is on loan from the National Gallery in Canberra until May 11th. It gave an overview of Oz art in the years around Federation and featured works by all the artists I’ve referenced above. I stood before Penleigh’s large, golden canvas of the site near Yass for a future national capital. I pondered on the likelihood that she may also, at some stage, have stood before the same painting, marvelling at her husband’s expertise, just as I stood before another artist’s rendering of her and commenced my own wonderings.

Some examples of works by E Phillips Fox = http://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/collection/works/?artist_id=fox-e-phillips

The Blue Room took serious umbrage to the latest Sunday Age column from Sam de Brito where he savagely attacked, of all things, the av. Here is the Blue Room’s rebuttal of his nonsensical assertions.

Why pick on avs? I love avs. I know perhaps they’re not the most flavoursome item you can place in your mouth – but I find them, well, sensual. There is the texture of this de Brito maligned fruit as well as its subtlety that appeals to me. It doesn’t hit your taste buds with a sledgehammer unlike some other fruits I could mention. It has a lush unctuousness that I consider most rewarding – slightly oily, somewhat, dare I say it, even sleazy. And it is bit of an elusive strumpet as well. As my culinary-savvy Darling Loving Partner points out, it is only with gentle prodding to its bottom region can one tell if it is ripeness is fully fledged for the plate. There is a sort of tingling joy when divesting it of its outer covering, followed by the culminating climax of the insertion of a knife point to pluck its perfectly formed, hard central core out for disposal. No, to me the av is the queen of fruit, even if its reputation has been sullied by being associated with the word ‘smashed’ on the carte du jour of numerous eateries of hipster persuasion!

De Brito thunders it’s ‘…the perfect food for the mediocre.’ being so bland and diffident in its nature. He aligns it with salmon and sauvignon blanc as the other refuges for the unfulfilled, both of which this punter also takes immeasurable pleasure in. So what if the av’s name, in Aztec, means that sac dangling beneath the male sex organ To me it is almost aphrodisiacal, sharing its virtues with with a plump olive or briny oyster.

As far as it being the food of choice for those who have failed to shine in life, I’ll let you know, young Sam, that I am perfectly comfortable with what I have and haven’t achieved in all aspects of life – my relationships; my former vocation; my capacity to earn – too often the sole measurement; in my artistic and sporting endeavours. And yes Mr de Brito – I too drive a white Mazda. I find it quite zippy.

I would be quite happy to exist, for the remainder of my days, on avocados and Atlantic salmon, all washed down with spritely sav blancs. I have no wish to be Richard Branson with his squillions and women hanging off every appendage, if that is an example of being ‘non-mediocre’. Nor can I abide watching tennis – although I once played it to a mediocre level. I have never, in my life, watched an episode of ‘Rove’. And, back in the day, I was quite fond of ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ – book and film. So there!

And no, Sam de Brito – you haven’t slighted me in the least. I’ll continue to read your Sunday column in the Age religiously, even if you’re becoming increasingly curmudgeonly as the years pass. And as for being addicted to the wanton av, I am also partial to a that sluttish coquette of fruits that leaves nothing to the imagination, the mango. Am I redeemed?

Here follows said column:-

Mediocrity – learn to rejoice in it – March 02, 2014 – Sam de Brito
One of life’s great challenges is coming to terms with mediocrity. When you’re young, you kid yourself recognition of your genius lies just ahead. Then, one day, you crash into the hard shell of your limitations and it dawns you’re not Nietzsche or Nabokov; you’re not even Noel Gallagher.
Many of us subsequently drink a lot or take up cycling. Others search for comfort in food. It’s a very common experience, one I believe has directly resulted in the popularity of the avocado.
The avocado is the perfect food for the mediocre, an ancient Central American fruit tasting like the bland love child of the green pea, almond and potato. Marketers have positioned it as the no-guilt-inoffensive-butter-substitute-cum-wonder-food and the pedestrian have duly convinced themselves they adore it.
That’s the insidious nature of the avocado. People tell themselves they love it, like they do couscous, professional tennis and Rove McManus. Like? Sure. Love? I think not. People love fried chicken and oral sex.
I also like avocado but I’m supremely mediocre. I get a thrill using my new Dustbuster. I cried reading The Bridges of Madison County. I drive a Mazda. It’s white.
Compare your approach to an avocado with the equally large-seeded mango. A person slices and scrapes an avocado like they’re doing colon surgery. It’s clinical. Emotionless. A mango, however, requires passion, bare hands, mess, indignity, pulp in your teeth.
Avocados are just so … safe.
Its mediocre relative in the fish world is salmon. No one scoffs its blushing flesh and says, ”That’s the best meal I’ve ever had!’
Like the avocado, salmon is a safe place for the mediocre to shelter. It’s the polar opposite of risk-taking. Navy SEALs don’t eat salmon. Richard Branson loathes avocado. And neither drink sauvignon blanc. Sav blanc is the wine, of course, that goes perfectly with salmon; it brings out the nuttiness in avocado. It’s the varietal no one feels strongly about. People have an opinion about chardonnay or riesling but sauvignon blanc? You top up from different bottles. It’s acceptable to drink it with ice.
If you recognise yourself in any of these fancies, don’t take it as a slight. We mediocre are a significant force in the world today. We might lack balls, but we’ve also managed to castrate a grape which takes its name from the French word for ”wild”, a fish that jumps up waterfalls and a Neolithic fruit whose Aztec name means ”testicle”.
That’s gotta count for something.

Sam de Brito

One could smell it as soon as the door swung open – it was the minty whiff of cleanliness. This put us in a positive frame of mind for adventures to come at the commencement of our weekend stay in Yarra City. Rarely does this city let us down in that regard – there are always adventures to be had. Our chosen hostelry certainly looked unpretentious as we trod over its stained carpet to the cubby hole that formed reception, but the being it held at the counter was beaming a smile as wide as the St Kilda strand a little further down the road. He checked us in with cheery chatter and then presented us with a bottle of, as it turned out, quaffable red. I was attracted to the images lining the walls as we made our way up to our first floor apartment. These were from the days of yore back in the 50s when the Oakleigh Motel was the height of travelling sophistication. Rebranded as the Armidale Serviced Apartments, on the corner of Dandenong and Williams Roads, it was a far cry from that now, but our unit was spacious enough to constrain the energies of that mighty-mite Tessa Tiger, giving her as well numerous cupboards to open and examine. It was well appointed and was soon made tot-safe by my BTD (Beautiful Talented Daughter). Following an afternoon of meeting with publishers (BTD), ‘adventuring’ with Tiges (me) and lugging luggage on and off trams (the both of us), the quality our accommodation was a fillip to our sagging stamina. As an added plus, it possessed a bath to indulge this showerophobic man. The trips we made back and forwards to the city took only a restful twenty or so minutes along either tram routes 5 or 64, plus with a few shops nearby for supplies it was all very convenient. Our choice therefore was the bees’ knees until……………

We suspect he/she, hereafter to be referred to as the Music Nazi (MN), had attended the Soundwaves Music Festival, which had attracted my son and son-in-law across the Strait as well this weekend. We deduced this for the MN started off his/her ‘show’ around midnight with a cacophonous Freddie Mercury track blasting me from my slumbers. Musically, it was downhill from there with a full range of heavy metal/rock making it impossible to contemplate a return to the Land of Nod. Initially I thought BTD had had a sudden urge to tune into ‘Rage’ at maximum decibels, but a quick reconnoitre put that theory to bed. Unbeknown to me until later, by four a.m. BTD, despite her love of a wide range of modern music, had also had enough and contacted the local constabulary. They, gratifyingly, soon put matters to right with an abrupt termination of MN’s thundering efforts to wake the neighbourhood. The following day I made polite inquiries of the smiley reception man as to the effect on other residents of the racket, only to be startled by his news that we seemed to be the only guests affected and offended. Even the in-house manager, residing in the unit below us, when summoned, claimed he had had a most restful night’s sleep. Perhaps BTD and I had both suffered a simultaneous nightmare and imagined it all!

Of course the weekend’s big event was the excursion to Melbourne Zoo. Tiges duly got to be gobsmacked by a wide variety of beasts, big and small, she had only previously encountered in her books. Lions, bears, otters, monkeys, apes and those quirky sentries, the meerkats, were of great interest to her. And she espied, for the first time, a real living tiger. The butterfly house utterly delighted our little miss, as did those dozy koalas. Similar magic was created by the arrival, at various stages, of glamorous Auntie Peta and handsome Uncles Rich and Neil. She became completely besotted by the latter when he presented her with a wearable hugging orang-utan. This she promptly added to her fairy wings as an essential everyday fashionable accoutrement.

But the trams, the trams! In Yarra City it’s always about the trams. Except at peak hour sandwich time, they are such a joy. Tiges loved them, and with her fashion statements, ever present smile and vibrant big blue eyes, it was like moths to a flame for our fellow travellers. As soon as BTD alighted, Tess attached, seats were offered up by young and old. Something similar occurred when luggage was being hauled. BTD was constantly politely batting away offers of assistance. Then there were those who initiated conversations using Tess as the entry point. There was the genial, voluble guy down from the Blue Mountains, who was giving his daughter a birthday treat with the attractions of Old Bearbrass. He was later encountered at the zoo. There was the striking, heavily pregnant Indian lady who, as she was expecting her first, queried BTD on the path that lay ahead. In the fifteen minutes that we spent in her company we discovered she was a US trained expert in biotechnology; that she had met her hubby, an Aussie sub-continental, through family connections – her way, perhaps, of saying an ‘arranged’ marriage. Sadly, before we could deduce more of her story, this elegant vision had to depart the conveyance. I could have listened to her sing-song, accented voice all day. On another similar journey from our digs up to the city a young lass, with a flower in her hair, sat down opposite BTD. The duo were soon in deep conversation. Hailing from Perth, this lovely had a smile as wide as that city’s Cottesloe strand, with eyes that sparkled with pleasure at the contributions of Tiges to proceedings. Sadly, with only a tram stop to go, my daughter and WA girl both found out they had a great deal in common as both were writers. There was no time to exchange particulars, so another story half told had to be settled for. Then there was a stunning blonde further up the tram, that same day, who could not take her eyes off my equally stunning granddaughter. I wondered what her tale may be as she pointed to Tess and made comments to her partner. Was she herself in the early stages of expectation, or was there an expectation that she could be if only she could convince her man – ‘Look at that little treasure over there darling. Wouldn’t you like one just like that?’ Later on that night the same lady caused the ruination of a well worn but loved white linen shirt, but that event, together with one involving a mirth inducing nappy belonging to Tessa, is for telling about at another time.

We discovered the village (as shopping strips in our vicinity were termed) of Hawksburn two blocks away from the Armadale. It’s located where Commercial Road morphs into Malvern. At 521 on the latter is Cafe Latte where, according to son-in-law, very knowledgeable in such matters, there was consumed the best coffee of the trip. The accompanying tucker was pretty sublime too. The shops and other eateries along either side of the thoroughfare were as eclectic as they were inviting, with a little indie bookshop (My Bookshop, 513 Malvern Rd), as well as a fruit and vegie emporium, of particular note. In future trips I’ll be catching the 72 down to Hawksburn as respite from the generic sameness of the CBD.

The final morning found me meandering around Fed Square. Up on its big screen the Academy Awards were in progress so I ambled to a viewing position to watch awhile. Glenn Close was on stage taking the millions viewing through a sad list of those shining talents lost to us during the past twelve months – Shirley Temple, Annette Funicello, Peter O’Toole, James Gandolfini, Paul Walker et al, as well as the incomparable and irreplaceable Philip Seymour Hoffman. Then Bette Midler walked on stage to warble ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ in tribute to them. Apart from the occasional clang of a passing tram, extraneous noise seemed to evaporate and time stood still as this remarkable performer worked her way through her signature tune. The response in the venue of the Awards was to give her a standing ovation. I looked to the guy on the step below me. A big, burly, stereotypically barrel-chested working class Aussie was unashamedly wiping away his tears in the most unmanly fashion (joining your soft scribe in doing so as well). Was he weeping for the fact that song had special significance? Perhaps it was for the reason that, as with all of us, time was catching up with ‘The Divine Miss M’. Were his tears ones for a loss he had endured, or because such an array of talent will no longer grace our screens again? As with me, perhaps it was a combination of all of the above.

But this was a commercial broadcast. The ovation for Ms Midler was cut short to be replaced by the leering faces of Shane Crawford and Sam Newman feverishly promoting that most crass and turgidly inane of shows about to commence its twenty first season of Thursday night sewage. The spell was now well and truly broken. The outside world and its din had re-entered and those, who moments previously had stood transfixed, awoke from their reverie and were, as with me, moving off to continue their day.

Even if the Footy Show never does, Melbourne always beguiles and I am looking forward to the next time already. This visit had added sheen as I was accompanied by my incredible BTD. I therefore had the magic of seeing the city anew through the eyes of the wonder that is Tessa Tiger.

Oh, and about that Music Nazi. On leaving the Armadale Apartments our smiling reception clerk came running out to tell us that MN had been at it again the previous afternoon, whilst we were out. Those resident were regaled at heavy volume with MN’s musical offerings. There were no bad dreams after all that weekend in Yarra City.

The Academy Awards tribute to those departed icons = http://perezhilton.com/2014-03-02-bette-midler-oscars-2014-performance-video-watch-here-live-wind-beneath-my-wings-in-memoriam

June 25, 2000
To Whom It May Concern

It’s getting closer now. I’ve only a few months to go, according to Doctor Jim, my oncologist. I was once so positive that, together with Tori, we’d beat it. But this time around there was no secret Chinese cure for what is afflicting me. Now I know that the end game is not so far away my place in the hospice is booked. Tori, Jack and I have discussed life for them post me. My wife has decided she’ll sell up and move back to Melbourne and naturally her son will accompany her. Her parents are getting quite frail and she feels obliged to care for them in their declining years. I tell her she’s going from the frying pan into the fire, but she’s happy with this decision. It is the Chinese way, she reckons

Death. Does it worry me? I guess I have come to terms with it in some ways. I feel cheated that I will not get to see a bit more of the life journey for the people I love, but it, in itself, is no longer frightening. I know the facility I am shortly headed for has an excellent reputation for making one as comfortable as possible. I’ll be managed well and my passing will not be a shock for others. I know, now, that with the impediments to living anything remotely resembling a normal lifestyle increasing, as well as is the amount of medication required to keep the pain at bay, it will be a quite quick demise from here on in. I cannot use a keyboard any more so this is being completed through a voice activated programme. I have had a compulsion to put this document together for some time now. I want to write my story. Bill will tizzy it up for me and place it with the papers held by my lawyer. By the time this is read, by those it is intended for, I will have departed. This record of my time on the planet is not designed to hurt, but I am being frank so I suggest it may well upset, in some ways, a person I hold very dear. Bill has his instructions as to people he is to pass this on to. Here has been my life – as I see it.

Before Tori there was, of course, my first spouse. Veena was – sorry is – of Indian extraction and wasn’t like some of the others. She wasn’t a ‘gold-digger’ as, it seemed to me, many of the nurses I worked with back then were. Some of her mates even were decidedly that way inclined. She, in contrast, was quiet and professional, devoted to her work in that Melbourne hospital where I was completing my residency. Back in the late 60s, when we were starting off, it seemed a sexual revolution had occurred and many of the nurses were after a doctor as their pathway to financial security, even wealth – and often were prepared to use their bodies to smooth the path. Not all, but a sizeable minority. That wasn’t Veena’s way whatsoever.

As for me, by this stage, I was still a sexual novice. I was bought up in the Western Districts of Victoria, my father being a leading and successful pastoralist. My mother, quite well off in her own right, had never done a day’s paid work in her life, devoting herself to being an affluent grazier’s wife. I knew, over time, my father had been involved with other women around the district, perhaps explaining in part what happened to me in life. I also knew that my mother was aware of his indiscretions too – but in those days marriages stayed together, no matter what.

From an early age I was compelled to leave for boarding school in Geelong – a sheltered, lonely existence that I think is to ‘blame’ for the way I am today – that and my appearance. There was no possibility of any interaction with members of the opposite gender, either in the school beside Corio Bay or at our fairly isolated rural homestead. So going to university was quite a shock. Although most training to be doctors were still of the male persuasion, there were nonetheless quite a selection of confident young ladies at my lectures as well. In truth, they scared me – so overt and capable – nothing like my mother. As I was no where near handsome, in conventional terms, the sexual revolution on campus entirely passed me by. By the time of my residency I had not known love, sex or even the touch of a woman’s hand on mine. A late developer in that regard, I was a tall streak with a pinched, seemingly disapproving mouth, eyes that bulged and already thinning hair – and even that wasn’t the worst of it. So, as a target for even the least choosiest nurse, I was lower than the proverbial bottom of the barrel. So when Veena showed the slightest interest I grabbed on to her for all I was worth, especially as, along with all my other disadvantages, there was the dandruff.

It had afflicted me all my life. My growing up was a misery at boarding school as I was bullied mercilessly about it. No matter what I tried – expensive lotions, specialist doctors, old wives’ cures – nothing, nothing would do the trick. With it any shred of confidence I could muster to approach a woman was immediately negated. It made me feel wretched – made me feel completely unlovable even – that is, until Veena.

I never did get up the courage to approach any girl I took a shine too and beforehand I barely knew Veena existed. She was so unobtrusive, devoid of the usual high spirits of the other nurses. In the end our meeting was brokered by Reg, another doctor to be. He had his eye on one of Veera’s mates but she would only date him as part of a foursome. She would bring Veena along – Reg had to find her a partner – and that was me. He’d chosen yours truly for two reasons, or so I assumed. First of all I was available; secondly I would certainly not provide any threat to his intentions with his girl. In the end he didn’t even get to first base – but there was one marriage that came out of that evening. Mine!

We seemed to hit if off, Veena and I. We had work in common and were both shy – me to the point of paralysis. I think Veena was unsure of me for a long time. Our first kiss took forever to achieve, and it was months before I could convince her to consummate the relationship – and I choose that word – consummate – carefully. We knew the theory of course, but in practice sex was a different matter. Still, I enjoyed myself that first time. Veena looked good in a sari, which she tended to wear frequently in private – even better out of one. But ‘making love’ with her – well it seemed she felt it was my right and her duty. She in no way approached deriving the same benefits as I did. I doubted that we’d last the distance. I knew with what I had to offer I couldn’t be choosy, but she seemed happy enough. Before too long we had announced our engagement in ’74 and married the following year. It was then the double whammy hit.

Being so lofty the only sport I displayed any aptitude for was basketball. I can’t say I overly enjoyed it, but it kept me from being totally sedentary. My job in the team was to dash ahead of the guy with the ball and be under the ring when he lobbed it up. Mostly my height ensured I caught it and then popped it where it was meant to go, but along the way I copped a few hits in the nether regions shall we say. By the time I was getting serious with Veena, my basketball days were over mainly so I could concentrate on my career. It is my feeling the sport left a legacy. Soon after I commenced being intimate with Veena I noticed one of my testicles would ache off and on. I put it down to the sex but, being a doctor, I should have known better. Discovering a lump in the offending testicle I knew it was more serious and consulted a specialist. He confirmed my worst fears and slotted me in for an operation as soon as was possible. I gave the regulatory amount of sperm – just in case – and then the second whammy hit. It turned out I needn’t have bothered. Irrespective of the result of the procedure it turned out my sperm count was way below that required to inseminate anyone. I would never have children in the natural way.

At that point in time that fact didn’t seem to faze Veena unduly – she was more concerned about the cancer. I was lucky. Soon I was able to put the incident somewhat behind me. I thought further down the track we would look at our options and have some offspring by the other available means. Soon after all this I decided to specialise in gynaecology. I took the view that if I couldn’t have kids myself, I’d do my level best to assist others in doing so. And that’s what bought Veena and I to Burnie, over the water, in Tassie. The town was now big enough for a second practitioner and I was soon joining the overworked original in his rooms. Veena had no trouble obtaining shift work at the local regional hospital, so it seemed that all was going along satisfactorily and I supposed it did turn out that way, all factors considered.

Life in the provincial town had few attractions for me apart from work, that being my salvation. By the time the eighties arrived Veena and I were sleeping in separate beds and an invitation to her room was hard to come by. Financially, as the decade proceeded, we were doing better and better. I set up in my own practice and soon we could afford real estate on Grandview Avenue – the best address in town. I didn’t think this made either of us particularly happier. Veena was of the opinion life was passing her by, now vociferously expressing a desire to have children. I was okay with that – the only problem was she wanted to have them naturally. That I couldn’t give her – we both knew it. In hindsight I now think it was a deliberate ploy – she was using my inadequacy as her ticket to freedom, her excuse to be rid of me. Soon I too realised our marriage was in its death throes – that it was only a matter of time. I was miserable at home, but at least at work I was finding some consolation. I knew I had my faults there too. Some complained that my bedside manner left something to be desired, but I keenly felt I was thorough and rigorous in what I did with my clients seeming to respect me for that. I took pride in my success rate, in dealing calmly with matters when they went awry during the process of childbirth. And then I met Bronnie.

For years she was just a patient. I say ‘just’, but right from the start of our professional relationship, through the delivery of three children, I liked her. She was a breath of fresh air compared to some of my usual clientele. Later I carried out some terminations for her. These never seemed to unduly upset Bron – she was always bright and breezy; always dressing provocatively, even when very pregnant. She had a flirtatiousness about her I was attracted to, but of course I would never act on that feeling. She was a small, bosomy blonde, always smelling of expensive perfume and always tastefully made up. I knew from our discussions re the cessation of her last few pregnancies that she had, what she described as, an ‘open’ marriage, engaging in a number of affairs around the town. The event that suddenly made life so much more worth living for me occurred when she came to me for a check-up after her last termination. She stood up, I thought to go – but instead she started thanking me profusely for all I had done for her over the years. She then bent over my desk, knowing full well that she was partially exposing her best attributes to my view, placed her hand over mine to inform me that, ‘If there is anything I can do for you Dr Alomes, anything at all – just say the word.’ After I regained my composure I asked her to leave and told her that this was to be be the end of our doctor/patient relationship.

I waited a few weeks out of ‘professional’ integrity before I relented and shoved to the back of my mind my conscience. After a particularly bleak weekend with Veena, I made contact and Bronnie and I became lovers. I knew I was one of a number, but Bron was addictive and she loved sex just as much as I loved sex with her. It wasn’t just the act. There was more to it that that. For want of a better word, there was languor. With her time seemed to slow down and we spent hours in bed just chatting, just cuddled up to each other. This was a new and wonderful experience for me. She also had orgasms with me. I couldn’t believe that. After years of Veena, that was the best feeling in the world. I found it hard to believe she was attracted to me, but so she seemed – and she never once mentioned the dandruff. We had our assignations out of Burnie in hotel rooms up and down the coast. When I attended conferences in Launceston, Hobart or even in Melbourne, she made it her business to be in whichever city as I was. Veena had given that away years ago.

I knew my wife was sensing something, but I didn’t think by this stage that she particularly cared. I know I had few scruples about the affair. By now Veena was mute on the child thing; was as removed from me as it was possible to be under the one roof. She was clearly ‘considering her options’. We treated each other cordially when our paths crossed on the occasions I attended the hospital, but at home she locked herself away in her room, I in mine. Stony silence reigned. Unlike popular misconception, she didn’t leave me because of Tori – or indeed Bronnie – nor do I think she specifically left to have children before it was too late for her. I think she left because she simply couldn’t stand me any more. One day I came home to discover the house empty of all her gear. There was a note stating that she was intending to return to Victoria, not to try and contact her and wishing me good fortune in all future endeavours. I have no idea what came of her. I respected her request and signed the divorce papers when they arrived, returning them to her lawyer without quibble over her admittedly quite reasonable terms – and so ended my first marriage.

So it was to my immense good fortune that soon after those events Tori entered my world. The leaving of Veena put some extra pressure on Bronnie – I now saw her as a future partner in life but, of course, she wasn’t in the least attracted to that notion. She wasn’t about to give up all that she made no secret of for me – and I sensed I was in danger of losing her. I backed off. Keeping my lover was an imperative, so Tori suited me down to the ground. Besides, I liked her. I liked her very much and I had delivered her first, Jack, not so long beforehand. The town library had always been one of my haunts in my attempts to escape the house when I wasn’t at my surgery. Frequently I would spot Tori at work there. One day I noticed she was seated at the ‘assistance’ desk so, affecting an air of casualness, I sauntered over and asked after Jack. She answered in a way I’ll never forget, but that was Tori, forthright to a fault. ‘Thank you for asking but he is fine, but look at you. You’re a mess. That dandruff! Why don’t you do something about it?’

I suppose part of me was offended, but I gave her the abridged version of my lifelong affliction and then she really startled me. ‘Bah! I can fix it. Give me your address. I’ll come around tomorrow. Give me a time. Ancient Chinese remedy,’ she laughed. ‘Success is guaranteed. Only will take a few treatments. And to thank me, you can then take me out to dinner.’ For better or worse I agreed. She was there at my door the next day, spot on the agreed time. She noticed the neglected state of the house, turned and simply raised an eyebrow. I told her. I told her of Veena’s departure a few weeks previously. I now suspect it was even as early as that moment that Tori started figuring out a new path for herself as well. I may misjudge, but that is what I suspect.

I was instructed to get a towel, put it around my shoulders and to sit. From her bag she produced a jar of a substance that she proceeded to massage into my scalp. Her fingers gently prodding the top of my head felt so heavenly I could have purred, but the stuff itself smelt foul. I asked what was in it but she just laughed and said, ‘Let’s see if it works first!’ It did, noticeably. After a few more applications in the further visits Tori made, for the first time in my existence I became dandruff free. True to my word, I asked she and her husband to dine with me. ‘Bah! Who needs him?’ she responded. ‘I’ll make some excuse. I want it to be just us two.’ Who was I to argue?

At Burnie’s best, the Raindrops Room, we chatted amicably enough, but I could tell she was in a rush to be away and I naturally assumed it was to get back home. But no, it turns out it was my abode that she was anxious to get to. After she refused coffee she announced, ‘Now I would like you to take me back to your house. You will make me coffee.’

At that moment I didn’t think much of it – I was just slightly shocked. Looking back, it seemed further evidence she had it all planned from the start. Was she akin to those nurses way back when. I figured she wouldn’t be badly off, but certainly her husband’s teaching wouldn’t be as lucrative as my gig. It was all very suspicious but, as I said, it suited my purposes.

I was no sooner through the door than she grabbed me. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to do something with me other than just have a coffee? she whispered. ‘Take me to your bedroom!’ When we arrived she ordered me to remove my clothes, then I was to undress her. I was immediately struck by the difference of her body when compared to Veena’s and Bron’s. She was so lean, almost boyish. We made love. It was very quick, hardly satisfying for either of us and we were no sooner finished than she was up and getting dressed. ‘It is time for me to go. When would you like to do this again?’

There was something about Tori that was so engaging. I knew I’d never really love her, nor she me, I quickly figured. But we made her version of love frequently for a while after that. When I told Bronnie about her, I was fearful – but determined to do the right thing. I shouldn’t have worried about her reaction. She said she was delighted but warned about the small town thing. I’d have to be very careful or it’d be all over the place – the local gossips would see to that. She was correct – it didn’t take long before I gathered all and sundry knew. Bronnie inquired if I still ‘required her services’. Again she seemed delighted when I answered in the affirmative.

Tori’s plan was proceeding apace, talking of moving in with me. So it came as a surprise when she announced, a few months into our relationship, that she was pregnant. It didn’t seem to throw her in any way. She simply announced that she would wait a year after the birth of, as it turned out, Kerryn and then she would commence her life with me. I complimented her on her efficiency and asked, only half jokingly, if I had any say in the matter. ‘Not really,’ she responded. ‘You want me, don’t you? We’d make such a great team. You can wait a little longer.’ Then she threw me the curve ball, ‘I know there is someone else in your life. That is no problem for me as long as you are discrete. Don’t worry, you can still still have nookie with me too!’ And so wait I did.

Did I come to love Tori in the end? Love wasn’t a word she would use. What we did together was always ‘nookie’ – never ‘making love.’ It was quick and efficient, just as Tori was with everything she tackled. I had Bron who gave me the caresses I craved – so no, I wasn’t in love with Tori. I couldn’t fault her as a wife when, true to her word, the day after Kerryn’s first birthday she, Jack and the little tot moved into my Grandview Avenue house. She transformed it in a flash – made it into the home it never felt like when Veena was resident. That I did love! After her divorce came through we made it all official in a simple wedding. There were just a few guests at the lovely rhododendron gardens in the hills behind the town. The only minus was the way she treated her husband. Soon I was concerned that he would worry about whether he was actually the father of Kerryn and I didn’t think that was fair. The only cross words I had with Tori were over that issue. She always told me to butt out – it was her business. I never quite figured out why she – and later on Jack, treated him so, in my opinion, poorly. In my few dealings with him he seemed a fine fellow and certainly a caring dad.

Now in these days of illness Tori cares for me in her usual no nonsense manner. All my needs are catered for and she never turns a hair at some of the more unpleasant aspects of her task involving my well being. In my heart of hearts I do wish it was Bron there in her stead, for at least then the care would come with a little more affection. Oh dear I miss Bron. We kept going as long as we could, but once it became obvious that the diagnosis was terminal I ended it. Bron shed a gallon of tears. If Tori has wept over my impending demise then I haven’t been aware – it has always been business as usual for her.

As it turned out Kerryn was a little force of nature. She adored her dad more and more as she grew. It also seemed the harder I tried the more she disliked me. I persevered with her, I really did. Her growing animosity towards me as she proceeded through her primary school years really put a strain on the relationship. Tori kept saying she’d get over it, but Kerryn manipulated for all she was worth – manipulated to spend as much time with her dad as possible. She has blossomed into a lovely teenager, but eventually even Tori had finally had enough and acceded to her requests to live with her father. Till that point she did everything she could to make our lives difficult. Once she left it was all so much more relaxed and she would happily visit. The young lady even tolerated me enough to have a civil conversation with me once in a while. And Tori’s attitude to her ex also seemed to soften as well. I am hoping that once I am gone there can be even more of a thawing all round.

As for Jack? Well a father couldn’t be more proud of him than I am of that young man. Jack’s gay. I’d suspected it for a while. That night he called me into his bedroom and told me of his darkest fears I now honestly think was the best moment of my life, even if it must have been so difficult for him. I cannot write this without tears coming to my eyes. To think that I was the first that he confided in – expressing his fear of what may lie ahead for him. I like to think it was me that eased his concerns that he was abnormal – that he was a freak. I explained how that in this day and age his life would be much easier than it would have been for me in the same situation, but I didn’t hide him from the fact that, in a place like Burnie, his journey wouldn’t be a breeze. With Burnie being Burnie he sometimes had a tough time at school and out of of it. He feels the move to Melbourne will make it easier for him. It took Tori a while to come to terms with his homosexuality, but now she is as pragmatic about it as she is everything else. His father was fine with it as well, although that didn’t seem to make any improvement in their chilly relationship. I never got to the bottom what the issue was between them, with Tori also claiming to be at a loss. I can only hope that as time passes Jack will see that the guy has always wanted the best for his son.

So – that’s it as I see it. A better life than I could have reasonably hoped for, all factors considered.

.

(I have requested the accompanying notes be given to each significant recipient of the above.)

To Jack
I know you are distraught at what’s happening to me and I love you even more for that. I do thank you, Jack, for your confidence in me that night I wrote of and during the following years. The idiot fringe at school in your last years and around the town weren’t easy, but you stood up and faced them as you did when you courageously acknowledged the way you are. I know you are at peace with that now as we are. Melbourne will be great for you – I am confident of that. I know you will find love and by the time you do I trust that society will be as accepting of that love as they are for that between opposite genders. I am so very proud of you.

To Tori
I know some of what I have written may have hurt, but I also well know, with that resilient nature you possess, you will not let the grass grow under you. You will move on quickly to a new life in Melbourne – and I know it will be an exciting one for you will make it so. You go where angels fear to tread. Thank you for giving me Jack to love. Thank you for being the best wife a man in my situation could have hoped for. It is my belief that Jack will find his way in Melbourne and may even build bridges with his father. And thank you, Tori, for curing my dandruff. I’ll never know what was in that concoction of yours but it did the trick and in so many ways made me feel so much better about myself. Bottle it and you’ll make a fortune – but I know you don’t do that with old Chinese recipes.

To My Bronnie
Thank you my love. If I could have had you to myself I would have done so in a flash. If I loved – truly loved anyone it was you. You are a magnificent woman and it is my hope that one day you will find all that you need from just one man – be that your husband or someone else. You have been the light of my life all these years and have given me so much pleasure that even now, with my life dominated by pain and how to manage it – I can look back and still remember and smile at the wonder of it all.
Dr Louis Alomes

 Skin of Dark Honey

So here it is Jake – the first draft of the first instalment. Have a look and let me know what you think – if it is okay I’ll finish it off over the next couple of weeks. I think it is much as you told me except I’ve fiddled around with the chronology to make it more ‘literary’. Hope you approve. I must admit some of the stuff you informed me of came as a bit of a surprise – but good on you for being so frank. Other bits and pieces I already knew from our gasbagging at the Brunswick on Thursday arvos. When you turned up here that Friday a month or so back I was initially taken back by your request. Leigh must have wondered what we were doing in the ‘man-cave’ for that length of time. And you, with that dinky little cassette recorder from some time last century! You have never come to terms with the digital age, have you? But it did a good job recording what you related to me so I had something to work from writing your story up. These days my memory is pretty well stuffed so I would never have recalled the detail without it. Well, you are a bit of a dark horse, aren’t you? Now I know what your trips to Sydney are all about. Still you are in a much happier place these days compared to the years before you left Burnie. I did wonder about Franksy’s disappearances in Melbourne. Now I know what that was about as well. I did have my suspicions. It honestly doesn’t bother me what both you and Franksy have been doing, but I do feel you in particular had good cause. If I didn’t have Leigh – who knows Jake? In your situation I may well have done the same, but I doubt it. With Franksy it is a bit different I suppose. I am humbled that you entrusted me to do this for you. I know you have enjoyed some of the other scribblings I have given you, so thank you for allowing me to place ‘your journey’ on my blog – with a name change of course to protect your ‘reputation’. So read on, let me know of any alterations you require, or errors of detail I may have made. I’ll wait for an okay, or not, to complete the task.

When she left I felt ecstatic, euphoric even. She was all I had hoped for – and more. After all my, as it turned out, not so thorough planning; after all my nerves; she had put me at ease from the get go and she was just perfect. After that night I knew I could get on with stuff, have some control over where the rest of my life would take me before I ran out of time – and its has taken me to some pretty good places. She changed me, gave me back some respect. Let me accompany you to another place in time, though, to where this journey began.

I remember the black tarmac out in the front of our state school – the Mount Street frontage. The big boys had their play area down the side of the clay-yellow school buildings; the primary girls had a quadrangle near the Alexander Street entrance, cut off from everybody else. For us little kids, though, it was boys and girls all in together – that being how I first came in contact with Ellen. I was usually too involved in marbles with the other small lads to notice any girl. I must have been in Grade 1A or 1B – there had been no kinder for me and prep didn’t exist. For some reason that particular recess I had forsaken chalked circles of thumb driven glass balls for the monkey bars. I must have been testing out my limits when I fell from the highest ones to the unforgiving black stuff below – no soft landings back then! I head-butted the rock-hard surface of the infant school playground. It hurt. I let out an almighty yelp and then started howling. And she came rushing over to me – Ellen. She put an arm around me and told me I was going to be fine. Then she rushed off to find the duty teacher – Miss Tiddy (you can imagine the fun the naughtier scamps had with that name!) She took one look at me, disappeared inside and then came back with a lump of cold butter and told Ellen to hold it against my forehead and I’d soon be as right as rain. By now my howling had diminished to a whimper when Ellen draped her arms around my shoulders again and kissed me on the cheek. It was my first non-familial kiss. I remember it was as light and as delicate as a feather. I recall also being stunned. She then informed me, in a proprietorial way, that I could be her boyfriend if I liked – if it would make me feel better. I soon forgot all about my throbbing head. Of course we were only about five or six which meant being boyfriend/girlfriend was all about holding hands and occasionally a chaste peck on the lips. It didn’t last. I was soon back with the marbles and she with her giggly coterie, but I knew I’d keep an eye on her, this little lass with skin of dark honey.

‘Satisfaction’ – that was the name of the pay-TV series that started me thinking about it all. By the time I was working my way through the three seasons of the show about an upper end Aussie brothel my wife had been long gone and I had found myself in an emotional desert. Shows like ‘Satisfaction’ helped in a way that porn never did. I started thinking about it as a possibility for me – I’d been starved of affection for so long.

Ellen was there with me all through primary school, in each of my classes as I made my way into the primary section where finally I got to kick the footy with the big boys. Grade 6, the final year, came with Mrs Harrison. She was really, really old – sixty at least, or so I figured. Unattractive, squat and dowdy – but boy, did she know how to teach. She was going to give our cohort the basics, come hell or high water. There were no frills with her, but she did give me a great grounding for the years to follow. Gone was any form of the fun stuff and I thrived.

It was the role played by Alison Whyte in ‘Satisfaction’ that really drew me. Her brave, or so I felt, revealing performance as the mature lady on the premises made me think on my nascent plan. She wasn’t physically the mind-image I couldn’t shake from all those years ago – in fact, with her pallid complexion, she was more akin to my former wife – and where did that lead to? I knew ‘Satisfaction’ wasn’t reality, but maybe, just maybe there were women like Lauren, Ms Whyte’s role in the small screen offering. Someone who catered for men, like myself, whose fantasies didn’t revolve around nubile girls barely legal. But could I really do it? I had my doubts.

By Grade 6 the girls in the class were developing, Ellen included. I formed a special interest in their chests – hers especially. That year at Burnie Primary School I spent a great deal of time observing and imagining. I also knew from thinking about them under the blankets of a night I was changing too. My dreams were almost exclusively of her – she of the flawless complexion and honeyed skin. Of course she was so cool these days, always in a tight huddle with her mates. She never failed to give me a smile or a wave though – keeping my hopes alive.

I started to research on-line. I knew it’d be useless locally. I’d read those daily ads in ‘The Advocate’. I couldn’t imagine anything more tawdry – but what did I know? No, for me it would have to be classy – the last place I would want to carry out out my fixation would be a seedy hotel room or suburban brothel. Melbourne was a possibility, but it was too associated with our footy trips and too likely that I would run into someone I knew from back home. No, if I was going to do this, then Sydney would be the place. I’d research Sydney. If I could summon the courage to go down that course, Sydney was the go.

As my final year at primary school drew to an end and high school beckoned, I realised my connection with her would be broken. Living on the cusp of Burnie’s hill suburbs the secondary facility on the southern fringes would be my home for the next four years. Ellen lived down on the flat, on the other side of the town’s main park, so she would be attending the older, more reputable school by the sea at Cooee. The thought disturbed me that I would no longer be within cooee of my honey skinned classmate. We hadn’t been boy/girl friend at any time since those very early times. So why was I feeling so bereft?

I set to googling. Googling ‘Sydney Mature Escorts’ to see what I would find. What an eye-opener that was! ‘Satisfaction’s’ Lauren had many real world contemporaries – and some of the sites had pictures. Some were a tad on the seamy side, but most were tasteful – lingerie, that sort of thing. I could draw up a list of possibilities – lookalikes, or at least, what I’d imagined she’d resemble these days. But could I go through with it – me? I’d been faithful to the woman I promised to devote my life to at our nuptials. My life since her departure had me devoid of what I wanted most in the world. Since that summer my confidence had been shot; my tentative efforts to find what I needed were usually stymied because the few women I got to first base with didn’t fit my parameters, my ideal. My fault, not theirs. That ideal had been formed back when I was a youth – in truth I had lived in its shadow ever since.

Finally I realised an Aussie rules footballer I’d never be, nor would I ever wear the ‘baggy green’. I had no aptitude for those pursuits, but in high school I knew racquet sports would be my forte. Initially it would be tennis. I was at training at the old courts in Avon Street that Saturday as summer approached during my Year 8. After I finished there I decided to walk along the beach into town. My early secondary school time saw me morph into what would now be call a ‘nerd’. I was studious, a book worm apart from tennis and I wore not particularly appealing glasses. I also sported a heavy fuzz – I was no chick magnet. But in recent weeks I’d been to the optometrist and had more fashionable specs. I’d also survived my first shaves. I was feeling better about myself. I felt change was in the air. I hadn’t laid eyes on Ellen for almost two years by then and she was the furtherest person from my mind that day as I perambulated the strand. I was probably thinking about the following year at school and what ‘options’ I would undertake. I’d be moving away from the compulsory subjects of the first six terms, some of which I struggled with. I had decided biology would be one. I was quite excited about that.

The trip to Sydney was booked. I’d lashed out on a reasonably flash hotel in the Rocks. It’d been a while since I’d been to the Emerald City so I felt somewhere near Circular Quay would suit. I’d a list of phone numbers for a dozen or so seemingly suitable escorts, or at least those of their agencies. They were the ones that seemed best to fit my fantasy – or perhaps obsession would be a better word for it now. Could I go through with it once I made it there? That remained to be seen.

That day, way back in 1965, lost in thought on West Beach, I looked up and happened to spot a lone figure in the surf. I didn’t really pay much attention at first, but as I came closer I noticed it was a girl in a yellow bikini. Closer still and it dawned on me it was her. She had picked up on me as well and smiled, giving me a wave. I waited as she emerged from the water and pointed to a white towel on the sand. I gathered she meant for me to pick it up and hand to her – which I successfully negotiated. And at that stage I noticed her breasts. She had grown since I had last seen her.

I arrived in Sydney towards dusk on that fateful day and took a taxi to the hotel. I was pleased with what I found. My chamber was well appointed and comfortable, with a view across the Museum of Contemporary Art to the Quay, the Opera House and beyond. My stomach had churned the whole flight – and to think that for some men this was normal when away from home. I couldn’t dream of eating yet. The deed had to be attempted first.

She dried herself off and I observed her honeyed complexion had not diminished and was uniform all over her anatomy, or that of it I could see. Of course she noticed me looking. No doubt I went beetroot red, but soon she had chucked on some jeans and a t-shirt over her bathers and asked where I was headed. When I mentioned Wilson Street, Burnie’s main drag, she informed me I would be accompanied to my destination. She asked how I’d been and about life at that other school. I managed to stutter some semblance of reply. She then inquired if I’d remembered our romance way back when. I nodded in the affirmative and she laughed. ‘How would I like to be her boyfriend again?’ she shot back, with a mischievous glint in her eye. I responded in a querulous voice that I supposed I would be fine  with that, incurring yet another chortle from her. Then, to my surprise, she took my hand and held it the rest of the way into town. We had a shake at the Vogue Milk Bar before we went our separate ways. It was all too brief, but she left me in heaven.

Of course, how idiotic of me! As I nervously worked my way down my list all my prospects, or their mouthpieces, told me they were already booked. What was I thinking. Book in advance. I’d do it for everything else – why wouldn’t it apply to escorts? Stupid, stupid, stupid man!

The following Monday, at school, a girl I didn’t know came up to me, asked if I was Jake and gave me a note. It read, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t be your girlfriend. Love. Ellen x’. I was shattered. I couldn’t understand. Of course back then I had little sense of the fickleness of the teenage female mind. I moped for days afterward, barely uttering a word to my parents. But, as she didn’t attend my school and there was no daily reminder, time passed and I recovered.

There were only a couple left on my list now and I was fast losing all my initial bravado. In our trips to Melbourne, when others, as they inevitably did, suggested a visit to the fleshpots of King Street, I always demurred. Thankfully Steve, the other constant on those footy excursions to the G and later Docklands, passed as well. In later trips Franksy would take to disappearing too, so Steve and I would head off to Crown, or maybe a night game when they became a fixture. Since his heart scare Franksy doesn’t come any more. Back then it was now well past meal-time when I rang the penultimate one listed – Constance – before my nerve departed for good.

In 1967 I finally had a real girlfriend – a lovely freckle faced soul called Jocelyn. We were, for some reason, down on Hilder Parade, by the sea, on an excursion and she asked me to join her on the other end of a cruddy old see-saw. After a while she hopped off and requested that I accompany her for a walk along that same beach. It was the start. Soon we were ‘going together’. It lasted a few months. We pashed and we fondled. I became all hot and bothered but that was as far as it went. As my time at the school on the hill drifted to its conclusion, so did my first proper relationship. I’d had some fun with Jocelyn, but wasn’t too despondent when she moved on to one of the cooler guys. I went to the leavers’ function on my tod. I knew now I was attractive enough to be a ‘player’ – my time would come.

Constance had a whispery, throaty voice on the other end of the line. She had an accent – slightly Italian or Greek I would have thought – and partly because my ‘specifications’ I wasn’t surprised. She kept calling me ‘darling’. I liked that. Fortunately, or so I hoped, she’d had a cancellation for the following evening. She mentioned her fee. She didn’t come cheap, but she intimated I’d get my money’s worth. Sounds sleazy I know, but didn’t seem to me to be the way she said it. ‘Would I like to take her out for dinner?’ I asked if that was expected. She riposted that it wasn’t compulsory, but in her experience it made for a far more pleasurable affair if we were as relaxed as possible in each other’s company. It was then I mentioned my special request. At that she gave a throaty chuckle and stated that, as requirements went, mine were easy to meet compared with some. She concluded by saying it would be a pleasure to do it for me. It’d give her an excuse to engage in some shopping in the morning.

I was awarded the biology prize at the speech night before school broke up for the year. When I moved to the other school for my matriculation – as the system worked back then – I naturally decided to continue on with that, along with some geology, history and English. I was also starting to think what my future, beyond the education process, would hold. I was contemplating teaching. Also, at the back of my mind there was the notion that the school by the sea could mean that I would be able to reconnect in some way with the girl with the skin of dark honey – with Ellen.

After I put the mobile down, the little bottle of whiskey from the room’s bar fridge was partaken of. I needed to calm down. I had done it – or at least set the wheels in motion. I then took myself out into the warm night air of a late spring Friday. I wandered around the Rocks and found a quiet bar, no mean feat as everywhere else seemed to be pulsating with end of the working week suited revellers. I ordered a few more scotches, listening to an exotic young lady as she trilled a torch song and tinkled on the piano. This soothed me, despite the rest of the clientele largely ignoring her efforts. My gut was starting to feel normal and a pleasant buzz from the alcohol relaxed my mind as I sauntered back to my hostelry. I had my hopes that the planned evening may be a turning point in my life.

I did. She acknowledged me in passing on my first day at Burnie High. Soon I discovered she was in both my English and history classes. I couldn’t believe my luck. That dissipated somewhat when I saw her frequently in the company of a burly lad wearing a bright red and yellow ribbon on the pocket of his green school blazer. I discovered that this signified his status as a prefect. I also uncovered the fact that his name was Geoff. My hopes became increasingly dashed when the news reached my ears they had been an item for sometime, a high profile item in the social milieu of the senior cohort. But still, when we encountered each other in passing, she always smiled or waved. In class I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, but she never sat anywhere near me in those early days.

Where would I take her? That was the next issue that weighed on my mind as I plied the streets around my hostelry that bright Saturday morn, following a fitful sleep. Eventually I found it – the cafe on George Street I breakfasted at had an upstairs restaurant as well. I took a peep at the menu – it seemed suitable, being neither too pretentious nor too basic. Being caught out once, I wasn’t about to make the same mistake. I booked a table for two for seven-thirty. I moped around – purchased a Ken Done print in a sale at his shop nearby, then took myself around to the ferries.

By winter that year I had two new people in my life. Firstly Steve and I struck up a friendship over our mutual regard for a local footy team. We took to hanging out together and cheering the mighty Burnie Tigers on of a weekend. And then there was June, whom I met – you guessed it, in June. She didn’t have the beauty or sheen of the obviously unobtainable girl with the honeyed complexion, but she had a pair of twinkling hazel eyes, a trim figure and was pretty easy-going. Her draw-back was that she wasn’t a ‘Burnie-bird’, residing in the next town to the east. Of course I was carless in those days, so of a Saturday she’d catch the early bus into Wilson Street and we potter around the milk bars until the footy started. Steve was pretty keen on a young lady called Glenys, so we were usually a foursome at West Park where matches of Aussie Rules were fought out to a far larger crowd than would attend these days. It was much the same as with Jocelyn – much fondling and fevered kissing, but neither June nor I seemed particularly driven to go ‘all the way’, even if it was possible to find a likely location. At school we spent out breaks together, again often with Steve and his ‘squeeze’. The relationship meandered on till the end of year formal. She was my partner, but by this stage it was in its death throes. She was heading off the following year to teacher’s college in Launceston, I had to proceed on into Year 12. We didn’t see much point in continuing after we said our last goodbyes the final day before the Christmas hols. I haven’t laid eyes on her since.

The rest of that Saturday in ‘Sin City’ went in a blur. I played tourist in Manly, listlessly wandering around the Corso and then down to the beach. Where the two intersected was a large pub, so I had a few bevvies watching the frolicking on the sand, before catching a returning boat back to Circular Quay around five. It was time to make ready for what lay ahead.

That summer of 68/69 passed with nary a sighting of Ellen around my provincial town – neither at the beach nor up the main drag, so when school recommenced in February I half expected her to have gone the way of June. I’d made it close to attaining my matriculation the previous year, so I was expecting a fairly easy time of it academically. Uni lay ahead, and a studentship to enter the teaching profession. I knew I’d have my work cut out once I hit Hobart, so I thought I’d deliberately take a bit of pressure off myself and get involved in a few of the extra-curricula activities the school offered. One of them was volleyball, which I found I could play reasonably well – adept enough anyway, I thought, to make the school team. Back then it was a mixed sport. The other development in my life was that my father had purchased me a car – a decrepit old Morris Minor, but it went after a fashion. I had some freedom in my life.

Of course I wasn’t totally unprepared for it. I called in to a bottle-o on my way back to my room and had a bottle of Tassie champers chilling. I had bought with me a collection of images of my candidates, printing them off from the net. My printer wasn’t up to much, so they were a bit out of focus, but the one for Constance showed her in some black confection of a negligee, not overly revealing and in quite good taste – or so I thought. If all went to plan tonight she’d be wearing something else entirely. She was quite a striking woman, bosomy with long, straight black hair – that being a requirement. She wore glasses, as I did, so I didn’t hold that against her. I’m not sure if looking at her made me less in trepidation, but the point of no return was quickly approaching. Shortly I would be summoned down to the hotel’s foyer. I needed a sup or two on some scotch to give me some Dutch courage. That Sydney eve, in my mind, would be be a milestone in several ways. I hoped, back then, that one would make the other a night I’d never forget.

So there you go Jake. What do you reckon? Worth persevering with? Of course, by the time this part ends I had come into your life – but not Franksy or Celia. But then, nor had Ellen – not really. But it was Constance who was the real game changer for you. I’ll let you have time to digest all this and when you are ready for me to have a go at the second part, get back to me. Feel free to suggest any changes to what I have written already. I’d like to think it is a reasonably accurate reflection of what you told me in the man-cave not so long ago. I admit I’ve enjoyed the exercise you gave me. Maybe I’ll have a go at my own story, such as it is, one of these days.

A Taste of Honey

So Franksy came clean with you Jake. The couple of times I visited him Raissa was there so obviously I wouldn’t be privy. She patently wasn’t there when you attended his bedside. We now know why he absented himself during our trips in recent years. Of course we were astute enough to never let on to Raissa about his disappearances. So he was with Judy. I remember her from school you know. In fact we had a ‘thing’ going for a while – about a week I think. You know how it was back then. The couple of times I have visited him up in Burnie he seemed so flat – almost as if he has done all his living. I put it down to him still getting over his op – but now I am not so sure. Gee, though, with a woman like Raissa, you’d think he’d have enough for any man. I’ve always had a soft spot for her and I know you have too Jake. And she is still a stunner, even after all these years. You remember when we first came across her and Franksy – at Tich’s dinner parties all those tears ago. I wonder if he’s still around, old Tich?

Anyway my mate, I’m glad you’re okay with what I did to the first part of the tale and I hope you now like how I’ve pulled it all together here. So ol’ fella sit back, read and hopefully enjoy what I’ve done to the rest of your journey to this point. You are no longer the sad old Jake of not that long ago – the Burnie Jake. The move down to Hobs has done you good too, as it has me. Yes, I know now it’s not just down to that. I for one am glad she happened and I look forward to catching up with you at the Brunswick for a few bevvies and a bit more of a chat now its all out in the open, so to speak.

The call up from down below was right on the dot of seven. She was, as promised, on time – probably realising my nerves would be jangling, as they were. My tum, as it turns out, was a mess, but I answered that I’d be down in a jiff.

I was bloody hopeless at it, I really was. What made it worse was that she was quite the opposite. Franksy was the one who saved the day and turned my life around, well at least my working life. He took me away from one nightmare, but another came in any case with her leaving – but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Constance, after the receptionist gestured in her direction, eased across to me, put her painted lips to my ear and whispered, ‘Are you ready for a special night, darling?’ She was fulsome, without being over-weight, was sheathed, neck to knee, in something green and satiny, with her arms and fingers revealing some serious bling. Both that and her outfit highlighted her skin – toned to the lustre of bronzed honey; she smelt musky and spicy at the same time. She held up a small carry bag. ‘In here is something special for you. I have not forgotten. May I deposit it in your room before we dine, darling?’

To my delight it turned out that Ellen was still on campus, greeting me in the manner I’d come accustomed to when she first espied me. Sadly, she wasn’t in any of my classes as it turned out, but rewardingly, there was no sign of Geoff. I didn’t realise till later when I was informed that he was Grade 12 the previous year and was now down south. The best bit though was that she turned up to the volleyball try-outs later on in that first week – and we both successfully made it across the line into teams.

In the harsher light of the elevator I had the chance to more fully appraise Constance, trying to estimate her age. Judging from her laughter lines around her not unattractive face I eventually decided on mid-forties, although the blurb that came with the image stated she was a decade younger. This, at a later time, was confessed. In her high heels she was about my height and she was certainly well put together. Going up she asked about our dining venue and yes, it was okay that we walked the couple of blocks to it. Slowly, she was putting me at my ease.

Volleyball after school was a couple of nights a week – one for practice, one for the matches. I eagerly anticipated them – they were the highlights of my life at that time. I would see her, watch her bounce around the court and we would, occasionally, exchange a few words. By now I’d deduced Geoff was definitely off the scene and she didn’t seem involved with anyone else. Steve had made it his business to find out all this for me. A good mate then – a good mate now. He was still attached at the hip to Glenys and was nagging me to get a move on with my girl of the honeyed skin so we could be a foursome. I knew for my dream to become a reality I had to make a move – but how, that was the issue.

I opened my door and ushered Constance in. As soon as it was shut behind us this radiant woman stepped in close to me, almost touching, but not quite. I could feel her breathing as she inquired, ‘You like what you see, darling?’ When I nodded in the affirmative she closed the micro-space between us, put her lips on mine and pulled me into her. I could feel her breasts pressed against me and that first kiss was long and deep. I melted. There were tears in my eyes as she finally pulled away. It had been so long. ‘And that is but a taste my darling. Now you must pay me.’

As the first term drew on and the days shortened I was still prevaricating, but Steve never stopped his urgings. Without him I would have bailed completely. One evening Ellen and I were sitting closely together on the bleachers when she leaned across and asked how I was enjoying volleyball and my final year. I told her it was all pretty good except for one thing and that one thing would make it a whole lot better. In answer to her expected and given response I simply requested to have the pleasure of driving her home. She smiled and her eyes twinkled. ‘That would be wonderful’, she said, ‘but not tonight. I have already made arrangements. But next time I will be sure not to.’ She hadn’t changed. She still loved to tease. I wanted her even more.

Constance took my arm as we walked to hopefully the culinary delights ahead, although I was more focused on the other delights beyond – and still nervous, if not now petrified.  It was a balmy Sydney eve as we entered our destination and took to stairs to the second floor. I was due to fly back to Tassie the following day and as we were guided to our places, I was wondering what my recollection of this night would be.

Taking her home became a regular occurrence after volleyball with it being a credit to my little Morris that its part was played perfectly. Although on other occasions it wasn’t the same story, she never let me down when I was transporting the girl with the golden skin. We usually chatted away amiably and I had the distinct feeling that she liked me – but was there more to it than that? Did her friendliness mask the sort of feelings I had for her. Would my yearnings ever be reciprocated? How could I get to the next level? In the end I didn’t need to worry – Ellen saw to that.

In my recall the meal is just a blur. But I remember our conversation vividly. She wanted my back story and I agreed to give it. There was the condition that I’d receive hers in return. She declared it a deal. She beckoned to me to commence my narrative.

Term one was quickly coming to an end and I was not looking forward to a fortnight without the joy of her company. Then, as I dropped her off after the final game for the semester she reached into her bag and passed me an envelope. In the privacy of my room I opened the precious document. It was a formal invitation to her eighteenth birthday bash, to be held at her parent’s home on the other side of Burnie Park the Saturday before school went back. By this I realised she was a tad older than I and it was a pretty formal invite, or so it seemed till I read what she wrote in brackets after all the details – (I will save the last dance for you).

I told Constance at that meal of the day I met Celia in my second year of university studies. I’d seen her at my lectures – a tall slim strawberry blonde, always surrounded by a bevy of happy, laughing female students. Since Ellen, I hadn’t been in a relationship of any significance. After gaining my matriculation I’d moved down south, sharing a room at a residential college. Passing my freshman year exams ensured me a single room for as long as I continued to be academically successful. That particular morning it was bitterly cold – a chill wind howling off from Wellington above. I was on my tod at the nine o’clock lecture – most of my mates were doing arts, so I rarely had company. I looked up as Celia and her friends walked noisily in. Normally they’d find a pew up behind me somewhere, but this morning Celia peeled off, coming to sit on a seat right next to me. Soon the lecture started and as it droned on I could feel her presence. When the hour was up, meaning our confinement together was ended, Celia put her hand on my knee and asked if I’d like to partake of coffee with her over at the student ref. When I indicated my agreeableness to this notion, she asked me my name, giving me hers. I remember we shook hands. When we were seated in front of our beverages she explained to me what had happened an hour earlier to cause me to be sharing a table with this quite attractive young lady. She told me of the daily dares they used to spice up their days. It was her turn that morning to be on the receiving end and the dare was me – to see if she could entice an unknown victim of the male persuasion for a coffee. I then inquired after her accent. Celia explained that she grew up in Belfast, but as a result of the ‘Troubles’ her family had to make a quick exit to as far away as possible. It seems her father, a peace activist, had incurred the wrath of extremists on both sides in the conflict. There was no further away than Tasmania. So we chatted on and she asked if I would really put ‘the cat amongst the pigeons’. In response to my obvious question she wanted to know if I would mind doing this after a few more lectures – that would really get her mates wondering! I reckoned I didn’t have a problem with that.

It turned out Constance’s accent was Italian. She and her former husband had migrated to Oz back in the seventies and with his family connections soon became successful in the Sydney restaurant scene. She discovered he was having an affair and had left him five or so years previously, leaving a life of relative luxury. It was important to her to maintain her lifestyle with as little assistance as possible from her ex, thus she had discovered the financial returns involved in being a higher end escort.

I was again a nervous wreck as Ellen’s party approached. What to wear? Exactly what did that ‘last dance’ notation mean? Would there be something expected of me as a result? At that stage I was still a virgin and would of thought that would not be the case for Ellen. Over all this I was in a right lather!

I told Constance of how the coffee led to much more and soon Celia was sneaking into my room for mutual pleasures at all hours of the day. That was common as the security was haphazard,  made up of mainly senior boys – our mates by the time we were in second year. They turned a blind eye. Celia was the complete physical opposite of Ellen – almost boyish in her physique with a milky white complexion she was inordinately proud of. Even at this stage she was applying copious unguents to to keep it that way. She resided in Hobs with her parents and was, like me, indentured to teach the sciences. We seemed to fit together pretty well, although she was certainly not into sex to the degree Ellen had been, but by year’s end we were engaged. At the conclusion of our third year we married.

Constance informed me that she rather enjoyed her ‘job’. Because she was expensive and ‘classy’ – her words, but I was soon to concur – she attracted quality clientele. As many were getting towards the latter stages of their lives often it wasn’t sex they were after – more the company, affection, spice or just someone to listen to them. Just about all her ‘johns’ were straight, but when some, like me, had requests, as long as they weren’t too outlandish, Constance tried to fulfil them. If they wanted more than she was prepared to give she simply let them know and usually they acquiesced. She stated this in such a way I knew I had to take note.

Ellen had thoughtfully invited Steve and Glenys to the party to ensure I had company on the night. Her house was packed, the music loud and I was having a reasonable time. I kept a weather eye out for Ellen who, in modern parlance, was working the room. I had a few dances and a couple of beers, even if, strictly, I wasn’t of age. Just after midnight the lights came on and Ellen’s parents came out. Her father said a few words in praise of his daughter and then Ellen announced it was the last dance of her function. And as the Beach Boys’ ‘Then I Kissed Her’ cranked into life she walked over to me, offered her hand and we took to the floor. She pulled me in close, wrapped her arms around me and I was in heaven. Then, as we swayed to the final chorus, she did as the song prompted. It was long, it was deep and I knew. Finally, my girl with the skin of honey, had really kissed me.

I told Constance how the Education Department on my island appointed Celia and I back to Burnie. I was given the school on the hill, my old alma-mata; she the one down on the flat beside the sea. Her vivaciousness made her a natural. She thrived. She connected with her students, was innovative in the presentation of her material so she readily engaged. By the end of her first year she was already talked of as a future school leader. Admittedly my appointment was the harder nut to crack, catering to the tougher hill suburbs’ kids, but I really struggled that first year. My students didn’t seem to dislike me as much as they, in the main, just simply ignored me. My colleagues all reassured me that one’s initial twelve months were always tough – why not for Celia then was my thought? In my second year, I was soothed, I’d soon get on top of it all. I didn’t; it became worse; much worse. My labs were out of control, my senior master was tearing his hair out because of me and strings were pulled to get me out of the place at the end of ’76. I was transferred to the next town to the west. There was only one secondary school and it was where Steve taught. I hoped that’d make a difference – it didn’t. My mate did his best to support me – he was clearly on top of it all, but I soon sank back to the direness I endured at my previous school. I knew I was digging a hole for myself fast and I still had another year to serve before I could eject myself from the job I was clearly not cut out for. Celia, by now, was already in charge of her department and clearly was disappointed in me. It was a strain on our relationship and she could barely bring herself to sleep in the same bed, let alone have any intimacy with her husband. I had hoped for children. She clearly was having nothing to do with that. She was going places, or so she thought. She was spending as much time as she could out of the department house we rented for a peppercorn next to her school and I was a mess. Thankfully, as I told my stunning companion, it was Steve and Franksy who rode to my rescue.

After the Beach Boys had finished harmonising, Ellen grabbed my hand and led out the back door of her place. We walked down the street to the darkened park. Once inside the gates she pulled me close. ‘It’s bloody cold’, she whispered as she kissed me again, ‘but you know there is more of this if you want it. And I will promise you there will not be a note of rejection this time!’

Constance seemed genuinely interested in my life in that provincial Tasmanian town so I continued on as our main courses were delivered. I told her how Steve was mates with Tich, well known by the local teaching fraternity for giving the best diner parties in his federation home near Burnie’s centre. Of course I, equally well known for being so hopeless at my job by this stage, was now a joke around the traps, but somehow Steve wangled me an invite for one of Tich’s gigs back in the late seventies. By this stage I was, I think, close to a breakdown, but Celia was beside herself with joy and saw the evening as a chance for what we now call ‘networking’ and ‘promoting her brand’. There was no way she was missing out on a night to do this, so I reluctantly suited up and out we went. As chance happened, when Tich’s wife Lynne started serving the meal, Celia and I were seated next to Franksy. I had vague memories of him attending footy matches at West Park with his wife, Raissa, and another fellow back in the day, so at least I had the starting point for a conversation. We then moved on to jobs. It transpired he was an accountant at what was locally referred to as the Pulp – the paper mills, the town’s big employer. As I had a few wines in me and my defences were down, I confessed to him my abhorrence of teaching, how I would do anything to get out of it. After doing a bit of probing about my scientific background, Franksy let me know he may be able to help. He knew of positions opening up in the research labs on the South Burnie site. He couldn’t promise anything, but he’d see what he could do. That night, for the first time in months, Celia and I made love. It was the night that changed my life as Franksy came up with the goods. We also conceived.

Ellen and I were soon inseparable, both at school and out of it. I knew, that for me, it was only a matter of time before our fondling and explorations, grabbed when were could find time and privacy, would lead to us taking the next step. We were both keen, but also wanted it to be ‘special’, to be something romantic we’d remember the rest of our days. Boy, did she get that right. She knew I was a virgin just as I was correct in the summation she wasn’t. I suppose being older it was only fair she was the more experienced of us – at least that’s what I told myself back then. My own eighteenth was coming up and I decided that for me a meal at my town’s flashest restaurant, the Raindrops Room, would suffice. Ellen and myself, our parents and Steve accompanied by Glenys – that would be it. Ellen informed me not to plan for anything after the meal – she would take care of that.

During the break between mains and dessert I continued to regale my attentive companion with my back story. I told her that once I had settled into my job at the Pulp, lab testing the company’s product in various ways, life seemed to improve with Celia now that little Dawn was on the scene. Initially I couldn’t fault my wife as a mother and I was starting to feel I was pulling my weight in a job place and as a breadwinner. By the time my wife was ready to re-enter the work force in the mid-eighties, the future was definitely appearing rosier. Celia, however, resumed where she had left off. If anything she became even more driven. She began to focus entirely on her career, determined to make up for lost time. Her fretting about her complexion became an obsession. She spent ridiculous amounts on potions and ointments. In the warmer weather she took to walking around town completely covered and with a parasol, standing out like a sore thumb in casual Burnie. I found accompanying her anywhere acutely embarrassing –  but fortunately there was little call on my services in that regard. Dawn was largely left to my care. For most weekends and for large chunks of the holidays my wife would undertake the haul down to Hobs to ‘spend time with her parents’. I seriously thought it was a cover for an affair, but I had no way of knowing. As the peace process got under-way in Northern Ireland, she informed me her parents were thinking of returning to Belfast. What that ultimately meant for our marriage, as it turned out, was worse than any affair could have been.

My eighteenth birthday bash was lovely. My father made a boozy speech and all was fine in my world until, just as coffee was being served, Ellen’s mother let it slip. She asked the question, ‘And what do you think of Ellen’s news?’ My love quickly hushed her, but the damage was done. I asked the obvious and Ellen told me it was nothing to worry about; she’d tell me when we were alone, after everybody had departed.

‘If she wasn’t having the affair,’ asked Constance, ‘what was she doing in Hobart?’ My response was that, although I didn’t know it until much later, Ellen had decided that her future lay back on the Emerald Isle, and worse, Dawn was included in this plan. It didn’t happen quickly, but by the Christmas of ’96 she went on what was ostensibly a visit to the old country. She’d been several times before once her parents had re-established themselves there, but this time she took my beloved daughter. Neither she nor Dawn returned. I remained quiet for a while and then Constance asked, ‘Do you mean you haven’t seen Dawn in all this time?’ I said that wasn’t the case – that there have been visits, but Dawn always wanted to go back. I even visited Belfast once but found the place, Celia and her parents, cold and unwelcoming. I joke that the main reason she went back was that their abominable climate was kinder on her complexion, but deep down I know there was more to it that that – especially the position at one of the city’s most prestigious girls’ schools her father, through his connections, wangled for her. I told Constance how expensive any court action would have been against Celia and then I told her how it had broken my heart. ‘My poor darling,’ responded Constance.

Nothing could feel as bad as when the realisation hit that I had lost a daughter, but when I heard Ellen’s news the night of my coming of age, it came close. As the dinner wound down my beautiful young lady of the honeyed skin indicated that her present was awaiting as soon as I saw off my guests. Eventually they all departed and I immediately asked her what her mother was referring to by ‘her news’. She told me to forget about it for a while – she’d tell me after she had given me her gift. When eventually I found out later that night it wasn’t good – at least, not for me. It turns out her parents had arranged a job for her and therefore she would not be joining me in Hobart for university as we had both expected. Through her uncle she was to be employed by Myer, in administration, in Melbourne; living with her uncle’s family for the time being. Ellen was naturally very excited at the prospect, but she realised I was committed by this stage to training to be a teacher. She figured our relationship was strong enough to withstand the separation. I wasn’t so sure, but I tried manfully not to rain on her parade. For the rest of our time together that year we tried to put the impending parting to the back of our minds and just enjoy the time we had remaining. We had a mantra of platitudes about what would happen that coming summer, but I think we both knew that the distance would make it incredibly hard, if not impossible. We had a blissful relationship going on, not the least of it being building on what followed that evening of my eighteenth at the restaurant.

Constance could see I was upset, so we paid up our bill at that other restaurant and made our way back to the hotel. She held my arm tightly, pressing her body up to mine at every opportunity over those couple of blocks we had to walk. Once back in the room my lovely hired lady was quite solicitous. She pulled me into an embrace and kissed my face all over, then suggested I see what the fridge had to offer by way of a nightcap. I was feeling more myself by this time and told her that was already taken care of, producing my Tassie champers. We had a couple of flutes each and then she said, ‘And now you must go and have a shower. When you return I shall be ready for you.’

After the departures Ellen produced a key. I asked the obvious but she simply took my hand and guided me to the stairs that led from the dining room to the hotel rooms above. Room No.11 was ours for the night, her gift to me – or at least part of it. Again I asked about her news, but she shushed me. She told me to undress. She told me to get into bed. She told me she’d be back before I could blink as she disappeared into the bathroom.

When I returned from my ablutions Constance was ready for me. She was wrapped in what I had requested. She moved towards me, reached for my hand, placing it under the silk, on her breast. I melted. I just simply melted. Another night came flooding back to me. Then Constance removed that special garment and she and I made love. In fact, we made love several times that night. I may have cried at one stage, it had been so long, you see, since I’d had a woman in that way. She stayed till morning. She didn’t have to. That wasn’t part of the deal. But she did – and I think with that she turned my life around. When she left, well, to excuse the awful pun, it was akin to a new dawn for me.

Since that night I now go to Sydney quite regularly and each time I see Constance. Don’t get me wrong. I know she has a soft spot for me, but it is all strictly professional – but she’s worth it. Another change occurred a few years back when Steve finally retired and moved to Hobart to be with his lovely lady. I followed him. I figured that would really give me a fresh start. By the end of my working life, with the Pulp long gone, I was now at the Elliott Research Station, just down the road from where Steve was then teaching. I have made a few lady friends in Hobart, with occasionally there being some intimacy. If I really feel like some TLC Sydney is less than two hours away. Constance is now a given in my life and I’m happy. I meet up weekly with Steve at the Brunswick, we chat over a few coldies. And now he’s done this for me. Dawn has come out to Oz a few times in the last few years and I am hopeful one day she’ll resettle here. We’ll see. I’ve been over there once more and it didn’t seem so bad this time. And yes, I’ve tried to reconnect with Ellen. There has been no joy through the usual means – presumably she is married – and that’s probably for the best. It has taken a while, but I have now moved on – I’m finally content with life.

After that night in the hotel Ellen and I made love at every opportunity, taken a few risks although I think by now both sets of parents were happy to turn a blind eye. It all became more fervent as the time for her departure approached. We loved each other with that particular night staying in my mind. You might say I was obsessed with it – that is, until Constance. Ellen and I were young, so young back then it seems now – but she made me so happy, a happiness I’ve never felt until Constance came into my life. Constance has only worn the garment once, but it was enough. Things really went belly-up for Ellen and I once we separated. We wrote to each other for a while, then her end went quiet. I later discovered from her parents that there was now someone else. It disappointed me, but I wasn’t surprised. I would have liked to have heard it from her though. I thought she owed it to me, but now, looking back, I know that I owe her far more.

And  really it wasn’t much to obsess over, it really wasn’t. But having Constance wear it on the night I turned fifty, well there was the parallel to that other night so long ago when I reached another milestone. It signified something in my mind – it really did. All those years with Celia – as that relationship waned so my time with Ellen came to the forefront as my template for contentment. Maybe Celia sensed that – who knows? Then, for all those years it was Ellen I fantasised about. Without Steve, Franksy, Raissa, our sporting trips to Melbourne I think I would have gone spare. Good friends. Knowing how content Steve is with his gorgeous Leigh, seeing what a difference Judy made to Franksy’s being – not that we knew that for a long time, it is magic what true affection can do for one. And as for ever-beautiful Raissa, a saddened husband is not making it easy for her – but then I suppose she has choices too – we all do. I made some, albeit belatedly.

She took my breath away as she walked from the bathroom to the bed. Simply and loosely sheathed in that knee-length white silk robe. She lent over me to kiss, almost fully exposing a breast to do so. She knew I was getting a good eye-full. She took my hand, pulled back the silk and placed it over that beautiful honeyed globe. I melted. I really did. When she fully disrobed and we made love. Well obviously I became a man that night in more ways than one.. The years have flowed away, but not a day goes by when I do not think of that moment of my hand cupping her breast. The thought keeps me forever young.

How have I done Jake? I think I’ve done okay, but you be the judge. Enjoy the rest of your life. I know I’ll enjoy sharing it with you. You and I, we’re mates for the duration. I know you can now go easy on yourself. I am so happy you’re finally at peace. And I suppose you have heard the news too – that Franksy has left Raissa and moved to Melbourne. I received an email from her a few days ago, as no doubt you did. Judy, I suppose.

She is nude and I adore her – always have, always will. I don’t really know her and we’ve never spoken – except for in my imagination. I know nothing about her apart from her name – and even that may be a furphy. My relationship with her has been longer than any other I have had with a woman – she’s been with me for decades. It was commenced so long in the past I now have only the vaguest memory of the occasion of our first contact.

I know our eyes first locked through a window, although I suspect mine were quickly drawn to her other attributes – for even back then she was unclad, the hussy. She came into my world disrobed and so she remains. We have shared quite a few bedrooms since that day and I can safely say that my regard for her has never diminished, despite the time we have been together. She would have seen me at my lowest, at my happiest and perhaps even at my most triumphant. She would never let on about all of that as she’s my trusted keeper of secrets.

Fleur is a framed image of an unclothed maiden, aged in her early twenties I would judge. She is posed naked in a sitting position with only some judiciously placed gauzy material across her lap. She is holding a hairbrush and wears some pieces of period bling. Where I purchased her I have no recall – only that I espied her through some shop plate glass. I figure she has been with me for at least half my life.

Countless times I have looked at Fleur and speculated on her story. Who was she? What enticed her to be posing nude. Who was her photographer? The initials JA do appear in one corner as a clue. When exactly was her image transferred onto paper? To me she could be Edwardian or a lass of the Jazz Age. I don’t have the intimate knowledge of historical accoutrements to decide on that. Perhaps it is the former due to her luxurious locks and she does not have the slim form favoured by the later period – but that is pure supposition. Was she French, given that they were the trend setters in the early decades of last century in the post-card trade featuring such beauties posing dishabille? It was a good little earner for photographers back then. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking, being the francophile that I am. If not, what nationality then? So much to discover about her, so little to go on!

Not so long ago I made a foray onto Google to see if I could ‘uncover’ any clues as to her provenance, using the various meagre clues her portraiture gave. This was to no avail despite the various combinations of wording I used. I will not be beaten. I will make future attempts. If worst comes to worst, I will endeavour to write a fictional account and entrust it to my blog. Stay tuned.

Although the datasphere didn’t throw any light on Fleur, I must admit I made a few discoveries that piqued my interest enough to delve a little deeper. One of these was happening across one A A Allen. What an interesting fellow – and what a life he led! Of course there is a link to my lady in this as he was in the habit of photographing the young women of his day in the same way as per Fleur.

Of course this was not unusual, for as long as there has been a camera the photographing of the fairer gender in various stages of disrobing wasn’t unheard of. For the first decades of my passion’s existence, as photographic techniques gradually became more sophisticated, this practice was largely ‘underground’ in response to the Victorian mores of the time. It was mainly for prurient purposes akin to, I suppose, today’s much more accessible internet porn. But there were some photographers who took the higher ground, believing their work to be an art form in itself. After all, nudity in painting, illustration and sculpture was perfectly acceptable under the guise of art, so why not in their line of work or hobby? I think our A A would have probably have had a foot in both camps.

For his purposes he had two factors going for him. History is somewhat vague about him but we do know he was independently wealthy – his rich parents supporting him through the early stages of his ‘career’. We know he spent today’s equivalent of a couple of million dollars setting himself up with the necessary gear and studio to carry out his business. What he produced he could not openly sell despite society, by the time this New Englander had made his way to California in 1921, becoming less morally rigid. It all worked on subscription, sort of like receiving ‘Playboy’ through the post, with one difference – if he was caught doing so he was in deep do-do. So with his private income and his subscribers he had the necessary dosh to hire models to do his bidding. His other ‘asset’ was, that as a result of a motorcycle accident, he was severely disfigured and was unable to move freely (although we do know he produced at least one child.) Maybe his subjects felt ‘safe’ in his presence because of his lasting injuries. And of course in the twenties nudity was starting to become acceptable in the silent movies of the era. For an ambitious wannabe actress, disrobing was often not a place too far. Think the lustrous Louise Brooks. This all ties in as well to the end of the Great War. Although not as pronounced as elsewhere, the void left by the doughboys heading off to Flanders was filled by women doing the work of men, giving them a freedom unheard of in previous decades. Once the soldiers returned it was all expected to revert to normal, except that many of the fairer sex quite liked their new found liberties. With the males again in the ascendency in the workforce, how was a girl of her times to support herself? Across the world many were drawn to the glamour centres where the risque side of life held sway, places such as Paris or Berlin. For America California and its burgeoning entertainment industry was the place to make one’s name. Anyway, for whatever reason, A A had the means to convince numerous girls to partake in his fantasies, often in multiple numbers. He chose a certain type, all slim with a twenties bob, even training them in what we would now call a ‘boot camp’ manner so his girls would possess his desired physical form for his tableaux. At one stage he proposed to produce moving pictures of his belles as well, but as the thirties approached and the Depression bit his plans fell through – and then there was soon the obstacle of the Hayes Code as the puritans regained the upper hand.

As the times started to clamp down on his dreams, so Mr Allen starts to slip from view. He had felt that the 1930s would be his decade, a time when, weather permitting, even the average Joe and Josephine would go about their daily tasks unfettered by the limitations of clothing. Instead his business collapsed as he found himself in hot water with the authorities for daring to send what the law termed ‘obscene material’ through the mail. The only sign of A A was that occasionally his name would pop up as a snapper for early naturist magazines. He passed away in 1962, much of his vast output lost forever.

These days what remains has been reassessed and now exhibitions of his oeuvre have been presented. Slowly old A A is coming in from the cold. His work is adjudged to have a contemporary feel because it wasn’t retouched, as was the common practice in his day. He believed in total honesty with what he was portraying. Of course, if nudity does not offend, you may decide for yourselves on the veracity of this with a simple insertion of his name into a search engine to provide galleries of his work

Of course it would be drawing a long bow to think the paths of my Fleur and A A Allen crossed. It would be too much of a coincidence to think she was one of the subjects he trained so rigorously to feature in his various series of images. Fleur remains on my wall in my man cave – and she will always have a home with me. And I’ll continue to be ever-wondering about her. Her story will be told – one way or another!

There’s been a bit on in the realm of the Blue Room of late!

As January segued into its following month, two beautiful women came to stay by the river to gladden the heart of this old scribe. My sister flew in from the endless sun of Mangoland to experience our southern capital’s less predictable climes for a week. Frith, named after the feisty heroine of Paul Gallico’s wartime saga ‘The Snow Goose’, once was, for a brief time, a resident of Hobart herself way back in the dim mists of time. Visits have been few since. She left this island many moons ago to be a navy-man’s wife, returned for a time to Tassie’s North West, before escaping the winter chill she abhorred to the warm grasp of the Sunshine Coast. She and husband Glen have been wonderful hosts to me on my several occasions in Maroochydore, so now I was proud to return the compliment; to introduce her to the little abode under Kunanyi , Mt Wellington’s new/ancient name. She would see the changes wrought on Hobart over the years since her own time beside the Derwent.

Accompanying her was stunning daughter Peta, bringing with her the glamour of big city Melbourne life, her home of late. Peta has used her talent as a dancer to see our earthly orb from cruise ship sorties to the four corners; to play fairy tale belles at Japan’s Disney World and to entertain a hundred thousand at that ‘one day in September.’ With a radiant smile, a whiff of exotic scents and a zestful take on life, this gorgeous young lady charms all lucky enough to enter her orbit.

The occasion for their visit was the eighty-seventh birthday of a remarkable woman – my mother. The event was held at the Asian Gourmet, an eatery gracing one of the piers protruding into Sullivan’s Cove on Hobart’s docks. Lovells, partners and offspring from all over the island gathered to experience tasty tucker, catch up on the doings of each other and to celebrate their good fortune in calling Alwyn mother, mother-in-law, gran and great-grandmother. Hobart turned on its glorious best that sunny Sunday arvo for the coming together. The harbour pulsated with sea craft and the tourists were snapping for all they were worth. The attendees were transfixed, though, by the little people. None older than half a decade – Mia, Evie, Tessa Tiger, Charlie and Thomas (as well as a new addition on the way) enlivened proceedings with their palpable pleasure at being part of another adventure, their inquisitiveness at he sights around them and their tentative steps towards forming relationships with each other.

As the week progressed tours were taken away from the wee riverside abode. Peta was entranced by another form of Disneyland – the adults playground that MONA, as the city’s leading attraction, has become. She pronounced it ‘way cool.’ Shopping expeditions were mounted to the Salamanca Market, the CBD, the emporiums of collectibles at New Norfolk and the stationary train at Margate. Nothing lasts forever and all too soon Nan was wending her way back to Burnie; Peta and Frith to Yarra City.

But for this aspiring chronicler of events, these happenings were not the only notable occurrence to be had. In a joyous coincidence and for me a matter of immense pride, that very weekend my adored daughter graced the local daily as the feature article of its weekend supplement. Her lovely face appeared on the cover, with, on the inside, more images to savour of her little family – hubby Leigh and the mini-wonder that is Tessa Tiger. Tim Martain did a great job of wordsmithery in tracing my daughter’s progress from her upbringing in provincial Wynyard to finally calling Hobs home; in recounting her previous literary publications and flagging her upcoming one – ‘Writing Clementine’. All of it was pure unadulterated bliss for a proud father to peruse.

And now I am away from the southern city I love, penning these words on the same coast that saw my daughter and son born and nurtured, as well as being home for the bulk of my own adult life. Another remarkable mother is my host, my Leigh’s mum in Pat. She treats me royally, plying me with the rhubarb I love and other culinary treats. Another occasion bought us north – the seventh consecutive twenty-fifth birthday bash of Leigh’s cherished daughter, Ilsa. Yesterday again there were family and friends meeting up at their ‘ranch’ under the flanks of Roland. The barbie was fired up by husband Keith and fine, expertly cooked meaty fare was partaken of. In the past twelve months this Sheffield couple have had much to celebrate as their industriousness is paying dividends in their chosen community. Keith is now sought after to lend a hand in garden and household maintenance around local traps with Ilsa’s managerial skills having an impact on local businesses. In the little time remaining to them they work together to restore a dwelling on the outskirts of town to make a fine home for their son, my mate Little Ford Man. He is a treasure, never ceasing to amaze his besotted grandmother and I with his ability to observe, figure it all out and then replicate. When Brynner raises his arms up to me, then lifts a leg to signify he has deemed it to be a time I should lift him up for a higher view of proceedings, I feel humbled that I have a place in his world too.

We travel back south later this day and routines around the Blue Room for the remainder of the week will return to their normal rhythms. No doubt I will cast my mind back over these ‘ten days on the island’ and contemplate their significance. Of course, in a worrisome world there is always the positive constant that is family. I will ponder on the talent that is possessed within the family group – my daughter’s writing, Peta’s dancing, Keith’s for landscaping, Ilsa’s for organisation, for instance – and where those capabilities will lead their possessors. I will ruminate on the little mites at the Asian Gourmet that sunshiny afternoon and think on how they will make their way along their, as yet unscripted, life’s journey. There are still so many unanswered questions and this old fellow is determined to be around for a while longer to see some of them answered.

One year for Chrissy my DLP (Darling Loving Partner) decided she wanted an adventure – something away from the humdrum, something out of the ordinary as well as, dare I write it – something out of her comfort zone. Unfortunately she left it totally up to me as to what that would be. She won’t be doing that again and has kept a tight rein on me ever since. What I came up with left her pleading to be left on some wind-blasted rocks with the seals and shags, but that is a story for another day. Last year we decided for our mutual gift we would treat each other to a trip to the deep south – an excursion that resulted in skirmishes with nudists and kamikaze Japanese tourists – see http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/03/going-south-part-1.html and http://blueroomriversidedrive.blogspot.com.au/2013/03/going-south-part-2.html. This year was a tad more subdued. In keeping with out recent renovations, we updated our kitchen appliances with cranberry red microwave, kettle and toaster. A much safer option. Of course DLP’s greatest gift to me is a daily occurrence – her continued love; her having me in her life. Not a day goes by when I do not tell her how much she means to me.

Towards the end of the past year, again as part and parcel of those aforementioned renovations, my DLP gave me another excellent gift. I have a brand new man-cave. I simply adore it. Ever since I’ve moved down south, two years ago now, I have had my own space – the front chamber across the way from the Blue Room and the sunny nook out back. Now the former master bedroom has been moved to the old cave, and visa versa. The original, due to our lack of room before mate Stefan produced for us our built-ins, means the new area is now my sanctuary with my stuff, much of it retrieved from storage out in the garage, around me. I have a bed to loll on and to take nanny-naps. I have a table to compose my scribblings on. I have shelves on which to place books and images of the one’s I love the most. I am not a man who is interested in sheds, so what could be better than this generous gift? Adorning its walls are some of my favourite possessions. Keeping her eye on proceedings is Fleur, my half-naked 1920’s beauty who has been with me for decades. There’s a wonderful painting by prestigious local artist John Lownds that DLP presented to me for a birthday a while ago now. His work doesn’t come cheap so I know that, on a restricted budget, buying it for me wouldn’t have been a straight forward decision – so I so treasure it. My friends have contributed – Carolyn with her own rendering of Tasmania’s iconic Dove Lake boat house and Claire’s presentation of the mighty Hawks team of ’11, autographed by every member. Although not the victorious side of ’13, they were on their way back then. Then there are two items from DLP’s own talented hands – a large crayon nude and a red-hued seascape. In my mint new room I have a limited licence, under supervision, to clutter – even to cover the pristine white built-ins with my photographic efforts and my granddaughter’s precious first drawings for her Poppy.

Another artist in my life has given me the gift of two of her paintings that adorn other walls in our little abode by the river. Pride of place in my sunny nook is Julia’s cityscape of my cherished little metropolis from the perspective of atop Mt Wellington. This was painted to thank me for teaching her three wonderful children. In truth I think this trio gave me back more than I could have possibly given them. The other, greeting visitors to our home, is my very, very special farewell gift from fronting classes over the course of twenty years at Yolla School. Of the Midlands in Julia’s unique style, it evokes all those trips I made between Hobs and Burnie during the years DLP and I were a bi-coastal couple. Thankfully those trips are taken less frequently today, it being usually with the gift of DLP’s presence as well.

Writing of art, another humbling gift came right at the end of ’13. Whereas I’ve taken to my scribblings in my retirement, brother Kim spends some of his time crafting ukuleles. What he produces are items of stunning beauty – expertly, fastidiously, time-consumingly and flawlessly fashioned from our island’s precious endemic timbers. These are works of utmost artistry as well as functioning musical instruments. I may never play it proficiently, but who knows? What I do know is that I can look at it till the end of my time and be reminded of his expertise; his symbolic heart-felt gesture to the familial ties that bind.

As with Kim, my own son has inherited the same of the hands on capabilities of my father. I know our dad would have been in awe of my ukulele and thoroughly approving of the gift of DVD shelving my son produced for me a few years back. Watching him construct these I saw father Fred’s ability to problem solve on the run. I know this has been a valued asset to Rich in his various workplaces. And wouldn’t my father be gobsmacked to see where he is working now, maintaining the huge barges that service the Furneaux Islands out of Bridport – as gobsmacked as I was on the tour he gave me a month or so back.

Over recent months there is perhaps the most treasured gift of all given to me by my BTD – Beautiful Talented Daughter. That is the gift of being able to accompany braveheart Tessa Tiger Gordon, my granddaughter, on some of her adventurings. It is just pure, pure magic. Being Poppy to her – well it just doesn’t get any better. All these gifts gives my life so much meaning. I am truly, truly a fortunate man.