Three Saturdays Ago

Karaoke

Reunions


Elections
Now where were we? Ah yes Alice's birthday, three Saturday nights ago now, it's a wonder I can remember. Kingpin at the King street wharf was the venue where we bowled, ate, karaoked and drank copiously as much as we could through a two hour time limit. Just short of this time limit we could get no more Champaign as there were no more Champaign glasses. Guess where they were. Oh well what are Sundays for if not to get over Saturday night. Last time I bowled my body remembered how to do it and thought it was seventeen once more. I remembered this and allowed the ball to do all the strain work this time. There's always a new lesson though and this time it had to do with shouting in adulation of team mates efforts in this outrageously loud venue. I had a raspy voice for more than a week and coughed blood clots for more than a day.

On Tuesday I embarked on the S.S.Tangara for Lismore via Casino. No sea sickness but still I would not recommend it. Makes port in Lismore a little prior to 5AM when very little is happening since Norco closed down in 67. After two or three circuits of The Block I settled onto a street bench for a horizontal perspective but was soon swarmed by street sweeping machines intent on disturbing my kind. The pie cart provided solace with the fluffiest, sweetest Cappuccino I've ever enjoyed and at Seven I was able to make contact at my motel which generously waived the mid day check in allowing me to nap and freshen up.

Lunching at the Gollan on the recommendation of Robbie who joined me without his teeth I began to feel a sense of home. When the waitress asked had I finished my giant fillet the gristle end of which remained in a pool of gravy soaked shredded carrot Robbie pounced and sucked on it with his gums like a baby. We retired to his shack via Bunnings where I discovered the happy smiley staff of the add's and sponsored his purchases with my staff discount. Ches' Rob in south Lismore, the first residence to be flooded, right on the wrong bank of the Wilson, across from and lower than the sodden playing fields behind St Marys and the cathedral. Only one room is habitable, his bedroom, which he locks to deter the ferals who wander in and out during my visit. Poor Rob has sclerosis, has had to quit his rum habit, drinks one percent beer and will probably die before next I see him. I went back on my last day in anticipation of this to see him one more time among his menagerie of dogs, horses, peacocks, parrots and ferals. He seemed fine.

My next visit was to another old friend Wayne. His home less than 200k away from Robbie stands high above floods and is undergoing renovations just like those of Sydneysiders. We drank a very pleasant drop of his wine ate a homemade curry and walked his dog Lucky at the previously mentioned sodden playing fields. Wayne looks well and prosperous. I don't well recollect but I suspect I retired early.

Thursday morning I experienced what could best be described as 'train lag' though I accept that no such condition has been documented. Some time that morning I visited Jack's friend Woodley at the Ellis ancestral home at the corner of Mackenzie and the Crescent on the way up what I would in my day have called hospital hill. The understanding of terms like these was to become a feature of this week. When Wayne expressed his admiration of Lismore's abundant recreational fields I said "o the recs" which was the old Lismore term for these flood plains unsuitable for other development. He had never heard this term so I was relieved when amongst old school mates that this was still their speak including 'the tin recs', for the fenced off section of oval.

Back with Woodley in the Ellis ancestral manse, an unusually gracious early brick veneer cottage which had obviously spent much of the last five years in the hands of the tenants from hell as a hydroponic dope farm, no major damage but every surface mysteriously coated in mould. Now as I approached there was some tingling recognition, as I left and looked across to the Crescent this turned into a strong conviction. When in 1960 my parents left for Sydney they also left me with our Cornfed cousins in the Crescent, across the street almost opposite Ellis House. Bob, almost three years older than me was still in residence, aint that sompin.

I rented a car the next day to visit my old mate Harley at Goonengerry. There can't be much greater pleasure than to drive across the hinterland between Lismore and Mullumbimby unless it's to be the passenger in such an expedition. My ancestors must have thought that their lord had surely smiled on them to be presented with this green heaven. Harley's part of this heaven would have to be the very throne of the lord. I never remember this spectacle and even when I look away am shocked when my line of sight once more takes in this better than IMAX 180 degree panorama of coast from Tweed Heads to Ballina if not father. Unfortunately Harley's Parkinson's desiese only gets worse putting his pleasure in this a vista on a ever changing drug induced see saw.

Lucky for him his charisma still seems to draw love, this time in the flesh of Jane, one time girlfriend and over from NZ where her relationship to her husband appears to cling rockily on those glacial shores. A beautiful girl whose ruddy cheeked corpulence seems to make her only more so. Only a temporary saviour it would seem for this lothario who always teases me with snippets like the photo of he and I with Tony O'meara and Greg Duma at Surfers Paradise in 61/62

Of course the reason I'm in Lismore is my fifty year reunion and that kicks off tonight with an early birds gig at the golf club and I'm here. My circumstances are probably unique. Fifty years ago, at fifteen years of age, I left these parts never to return. I recognise no one except for John McMillan who fortunately I met a couple of months ago and is here so I know this is my group. No I lie, for the one thing I forgot to bring with me was the invitation with all the details of events. Fortunately the main correspondent of this information is Toby Daley or to give the whole title I was to learn John 'Toby' Arkwright 'Open All Hours' Daley of Daley's Homewares & Monograming. On my third or fourth circuit of the block I found his establishment and made myself acquainted. He was instantly recognisable, his shorter nickname coming from his resemblance to a Toby Jug, something those under fifty would not recognise.

I recognised a few faces or more accurately bodies, Peter Duncan the runt and Mick Davis the big bully. I recognised a lot of names but not all. Some names and faces escaped me completely. John Macmillan introduced me to Clare Boyle, my relative who retreated from any contact like I had aids. I didn't stay late as I had driven my hire car out here to The Lismore Workers Bowling Club. It may be that all clubs in Lismore bear in their title the word Workers. Richard Mackney appears to be president of at least four of them.

Saturday I relaxed in anticipation of the big event at the workers club and now here I am reflecting that I have bored you enough and perhaps should leave this event which I'm bound to visit in great detail, to a rockstump blog for you to peruse at leisure in your doting years. It's enough to say for now that it was an exceptionally enjoyable evening that went too fast.

Home and after a weeks work I attended another Saturday night party, this time an election party at Jack and Alice's. Yes I suppose we could all still be there the way things turned out but we were sensible, someone had to be, and called it a night sometime after twelve.

Sunday I went with Alice, Chris, Ross, Anne, Hugh and others to see 'Gwen in purgatory' a delightful play from Tommy Murphy whose Dickensian genius for character presents us with a play that makes all of us laugh and cringe in equal proportion.

Next Saturday I intend to relax

Love ,

Robert

Well this is my story anyway

You can't imagine the pleasure as, half shickered on Saturday evening at the end of an hysterical final to the series of Doc Martin, I realise that I am in possession a virginal Spectrum with its up to date programme for tonight's viewing. Now last week's edition in which only this morning I was fossicking for the last of words that might within their sentences provide meaning in the gap between sleep and the return to work's wakefulness, can now be recycled.

This time last week we were having a wonderful time in Goulburn celebrating Christopher's sixtieth birthday. More than half shickered then and in no need of The Herald, the news section of which I doggedly clung to weekend long, I was the life of the party. I learnt this was so as I slowly regained a sorry sobriety on Sunday and gradually absorbed the gentle and sometimes sharper jibes of that days returning crowd. It was not unlike those times in the sixties when I learned not to admit to the void that had replaced my recollections of the previous nights activities which my comrades might, no certainly would, gleefully invent.

Not even the photos could convince me that I was anything other than reliable good fun. Yes maybe loud, OK overbearing, but my fly was not open all night. Once yes, the rest was just poor K Mart tailoring.

What a lovely sun kissed weekend it was. All the dire warnings of sub zero temperatures, frost and even snows were dispelled by the balm of this outdoor sun shiny weather. Even the dawn could do no better than a pea soup fog in which Dorothy and I managed, holding hands, not to get lost.Timing's the trick and we timed our departure perfectly as storm clouds gathered through which our train took us in confident comfort.

Stephen was the surprise guest, looking the image of a western Australian. It's hard to believe that he travelled all this way without checking on his prised possessions in my trust. Maybe the Balinese coffee table and king size bed do not prey on his consciousness as they do mine. Just goes to show how much he trusts me I suppose and at the same time gives me that much more time to restore or at least worry about restoring them. Thank Nigel he doesn't participate in this forum.

Yesterday we participated in a surprisingly well attended and vibrant family day presented by Hugh at the Sydney Australian Rules Club, better known as The Swans, in Kings Cross. Just like Hugh The Swans feel that the fountain is the heart of Sydney and the Fountain Cafe (also known as the office) embodies Sydney culture. Now with The Bourbon incapacitated by flooding, some of which can be attributed to The Swans if you believe local gossip, Hugh and his neighbours have moved their allegiance one more door down the street to The Swans, next stop Les Girls or whatever they call that these days. You 2020 participants in the institution of 'O'Keefe's Family Day' can expect to be celebrating at The Kurd English Literature Association more recently known as 'Pokies Strip Club'.

As you are beginning to see these are busy times for your correspondent. Next week on Saturday I have been invited to celebrate Alice's birthday with her young friends. Then on Tuesday I embark on a Journey to Lismore for my fifty year high school anniversary. the next weekend will be landmarked by Alice and Jack's election party where Gabby will unfortunately not be in attendance owing to her habit of being an election day bridesmaid.

That's enough boredom from me for now, you will all have to retreat to your favoured drugs for sleep.

Oh I forgot my camera at Goulburn so you will just have to troll facebook for evidence

R