Her eyebrows arched upwards, just below her fringe, momentarily suspended in disbelief. I repeated my protestations. “Nah, I’ve never seen him before.”

I sense, maybe feel my palms start to sweat. I keep them firmly in my pockets, but I need a distraction: I fumble and find my tobacco and busy myself rolling a smoke. I avoid her gaze, knowing her disbelief will be writ large.

That first meeting. A blotched, scaly scalp, dandruff-covered shoulders and a monastic mop of hair, not yet white, but that sort of fifty-year-old streaky transition. Older fems’ would be reaching for the blue-rinse bottle.

And those ‘inserts’! Huge rings distend his earlobes, and a pièce de résistance, his nasal septum sports an inch-diameter ring, set on edge.  When I first met him, I remember thinking a horse’s reins would fit nicely through that hole!

As instructed, I’m in that distant overgrown section of the supermarket’s car park. My windows are down and Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock pumps from my phone.

That was last spring, I remember the Manchurian pears were just starting to bud, and I was edgy. It had been a week since I’d had my last fix!

My new dealer, ‘Septum’ pops into the car. “G’day, you must be Bruce.” There was a slight European accent. Why did I notice that? We conduct the transaction satisfactorily; he leaves, and I drive into the nearby park and float for a few fanciful hours!

I repeat that meet-up, maybe a couple of dozen times, sans Elvis. But I’d been to the park every day this week without success. Stress was an understatement; my focus and capacities are shot, zilch output, and I haven’t been at work all week.

It’s Friday, and I drive into the space for the umpteenth time, hoping against hope to see Septum. But before I fully appreciate the scene, she, and a burly mate are at my window, holding out their Police ID and demanding that I stop.

Septum is slumped into one of those cheap camp chairs. Could have been sleeping, except for the bloodied shirt and neat hole above his left eye. He actually looks quite at ease; more so than me!

“Any idea what his name is?” she asks. “Ah, yer. Nah, as I said a moment ago, I know him as Septum!”

She reaches into the car and secures my keys. “Maybe you could step out for a moment. Help us with our enquiries.” Within moments, her notebook has my vital statistics: name, address, Myki, Bupa and Medicare numbers, beer and music preferences, favourite movie, and she wants to know why I have come to this particular part of the carpark.

I considered describing the site’s ‘serenity’, but decide it’s best not to upset The Law! I wince when the burly guy grabs my left arm. He rolls up my sleeve, exposing telltale bruising and my track marks!

“Yer, well, Septum was my go-to! I don’t know his name. I just meet up and buy every week.”

My twentieth birthday approaches, and I am reminded, by Personnel staff of my requirement to register before my birthday. Failure would mean immediate dismissal from Federal employment; compliance: a possible overseas engagement!

Possibly a quirk of fate, but work colleagues are almost exclusively right-wing idealists, keen supporters of The War, and Santamaria.  Elevenses, and lunch breaks are becoming ugly affairs. My clock is ticking!

Four 19-year-olds meet on Friday evenings at the flat. We are exploring various plans, drawing inspiration from a young American draft dodger who has joined our cadre. Densel is from Wisconsin, but his visa will enable him to stay in Melbourne for a few years.

Jim, my flatmate, has a cousin living on a remote property out from Merrijig, beyond Mansfield. He suggests it might provide a reclusive opportunity; work in exchange for board and anonymity. That might work.

Ringo continues to inspire with his need for “… a little help from my friends”, but my issue remains unresolved – how to suddenly, and sustainably, disappear into a secure, isolated shell.  If I take a bag, neighbours will probably notice. I have some cash in the bank – should I withdraw it, and give it to Jim’s cousin? Should I tell Mum and Dad? How long will I need to disappear for?

It is the same conundrum for all of us. On these Friday nights, we plot and scheme. As the evenings progress, the booze, in my case, a cheap bottle of sparkling plonk, generates fanciful ideas.  Board the tram in a dress and wig; shave my head and beard; shoot and live off rabbits: using their skins as a cash flow. I must remember to take my rifle!

I’ve found a way to slip out of the city. I’ll catch a tram out to Coburg, no bag, nothing out of the ordinary, except my warm duffel coat and hiking boots! Jim meets me at Bell Street, hands over my gear, and from the station, catch the Seymour rattler, changing at Tallarook for Mansfield.  He reckons his cousin won’t mind meeting me for the drive out to Merrijig.  All sounds tickety-boo!

Deni suggests disappearing during the Melbourne Cup week – crowds, everyone focused on backing a winner. But that’s a month after my birthday. I think the footy Grand Final is a better bet, and it’s held a month before I reach the Nashos’ registration deadline.

I decide on a trial run. The tram works seamlessly, but I have the train timetable arse about and miss the connection! We do it again the following weekend: the tram, the train connections, even Jim’s cousin on the Mansfield platform as the train arrives. There is an unplanned bonus: I leave my gun, ammo, telescopic sights and some clothes with him, while I return to Melbourne a couple of days later.

Three weeks pass. It’s a Carlton Essendon MCG match-up. I wear Carlton’s colours and, thanks to a little help from my friends, disappear north east towards an uncertain, indeterminate future.

We do the Open-House inspection. It’s maybe a little nosy, but justified, on the neighbourly need-to-know ratings scale! A few weeks later, we are in the street with the small crowd, watching as the well-dressed Agent whips the bidders into a competitive frenzy. We come away slightly dazzled at the implications for our own property values!

The removal truck duly arrives. A blue-haired, heavily tattooed lass sends a cheery wave in our direction, then secures her big, dark Rottweiler to a verandah post. It makes periodic lunges as the guys move the furniture in, enthusiastically and loudly barking throughout.

We maintain our observation from the lounge. Some nice antique pieces are noted, also some nasty looking flat-pack stuff. We see a chap, also heavily tattooed, sporting a goatee and a mullet, arrive in a late-model Bimmer. He yells a couple of instructions to Bluehair, then leaves!

A few days later, Dulcie ventures next door with a plate of her freshly-baked oatmeal biscuits. Bluehair accepts the welcoming tray perfunctorily, offers thanks, then closes the door.

On that first Saturday night, the neighbourhood learns that the newbies’ preferred music is reggae and hip-hop. I reckon I get to sleep sometime after four. Music, laughter, breaking glass, cars and the loudly barking dog suggest that the house is now satisfactorily ‘warmed’! Things shift down a gear from here!

Dog-walking does not include poo-bags. Several of us along the street note the nature strip land mines. On rubbish night, the wind sends a selection of plastic recyclables into the gutter from their overflowing wheelie. I spend a few moments collecting their rubbish.

Pungent aromas drift over the fence, suggesting ‘Jamaican’ tobacco. Dulcie is noticeably woozy as we take our evening tipple on the back verandah. She starts to laugh uncontrollably!  The loose, noisy language also starts to impose on our nightly routines, and we relocate the pre-dinner sherry and canapes into the lounge.

We try to maintain some sense of optimism, but another offering, this time, our home-stewed quinces are rejected at their front door. Her blunt explanation is that neither of them eat fruit!

Then the surprise invitation to join them for a Friday evening soiree! We are caught off guard, but we decide to bring a good bottle of ‘fizz’, a non-vintage Moet. It hits the mark: the flutes set a welcoming tone.

While the steaks are marinating, Bluehair – her name is Juliette, his Geoff – rolls one of their special cigarettes. It passes between them a couple of times before I realise the third round includes Dulcie!

I know something is remiss when Dulcie starts to giggle. She volunteers an old party joke, the one about the bear, up a tree in the woods. Laughter and tears, the three of them off together to some hysterical nirvana. I note the Moet has more to offer. I drain the remaining fizz and join in the merriment.

Nobody notices the rottweiler. Gunter’s his name, with paws on the counter, noisily snaffling the fillet steaks!

Childcare and school drop-offs were both achieved without incident, and I had mostly wiped off the youngest’s dribbled milk from the front of my suit. The slightly dark, damp patch would disappear in half an hour: the interview was an hour away.

As a full-time ‘house dad’, I had been out of the workforce now for five years, and this was going to be my attempt to re-enter the world of ‘big people’. The job had ideal hours – 09:30 through to 14:30 knock-off – perfect: drop-off and pick-up both fitting in seamlessly. I was a little nervous, but I reviewed my credentials one last time and entered the restaurant.

Owner/Chef Sophie led the interview; her Sommelier, Henri, completed the panel. We sat in the rather gloomy dining room, at a table, two chairs on the far side, and mine. I sat.  The table posed quite a formidable barrier, and the table lamp cast preoccupying shadows onto the mirror behind them. I was feeling intimidated and could feel my self-confidence ebbing.

“Thank you for coming in this morning. To set the scene, maybe you could outline what previous Barista experience you would bring to us?” Sophie poses. I sense that she is not a particularly comfortable interviewer herself; a hair-twisting mannerism plays throughout the interview.

“Well, actually, I’ve never worked as a professional Barista, but I am often complimented on the coffee I make at home on our DeLonghi. I completed a TAFE Barista-training course last month, and I can make quite magical designs atop lattes!”

There was throat clearing before Henri asks, “I see from your application that you have been out of the workforce for a few years. Do you think the workplace might have changed in that time, and if so, how?”

“I headed up the research team at the Ballarat Coffee Research Centre for three years. We had been researching the capacity to extend both the wholesale and retail ‘shelf life’ of the beans, maximising flavours by adjusting roasting temperatures and timing, post-grind oxidation, and particularly the packaging seal. I still maintain email contact with the program and note that there have been significant advances, particularly with the Arabica and Robusta bean choice and the seal.”

“Impressive,” said Sophie, but I notice she is still preoccupied with a wayward strand, and there is an ever-so-brief, non-verbal exchange between them! OK, this was where I needed to insert my practised, killer line.

“In my final year, I worked specifically on the extraction differentials: the bean-age and storage, grind and temperature, milk texturing, the pour and the impact of these variables on the final brew. So, while never working as a Barista, I do know a lot about what goes into delivering the perfect coffee. Maybe I could demonstrate my skills on your machine?”

Sophie and Henri nod. “Could you make me a Short Black, please, and a Flat White for Henri.”

I adjust their Gaggia Vetro’s settings. “Bellissimo!”

I find that ‘big people’ have indeed changed: screen-time has killed a lot of the chatter!

It was a few Fridays back, and as is my habit, I am up early, a long black quietly taken as I peruse the overnight emails: increasing annoyance as my New York Times subscription delivers acres of coverage about ‘he who shall not be named!’ I really must cancel that subscription. Half an hour reading news bulletins and I am ready to broach the morning air.

I take the long route to the paper shop, an extra three-kilometre meander through the neighbourhood, which the medics assure me might add a few extra years before the big shuffle occurs.  Sometimes there are cuttings for the taking: I found an unusually light-coloured geranium a few weeks ago, a quick nip at the back of the bush and it was mine.

I revel in the walk. I know several dogs, not by name but by temperament. There was Ugly, a God-forsaken Pekinese sort-of snuffly animal, always snotty, breathless and unapologetic as it waits for my passage past his letterbox.  There is a ginormous Rhodesian Ridgeback a few streets further along. Her deep bark suggests aggression, undone as her tail wags furiously.  I know her as Wagalot, and despite our close friendship, I admit to a certain amount of reassurance from the 1.5-metre-high fence that separates us.

Another few corners and I am at the small cottage, with its narrow strip of straggly grass and the insistent yapping of a stout-looking Dachshund. I have named him Gottfried, quite an annoying little dog. I’d hate to have him as a neighbour.

The curtains on the large front window of Gotfried’s cottage are open. I glance in, noting a bench press, weights and an exercise bike. I belatedly realise I am also looking at a rather overly-proportioned bloke on the bike, pedalling for all he was worth. A quick double-take. OMG, he’s stark naked!  He glances in my direction and smiles.

I hurry on, my morning mood somewhat discombobulated. I am wondering if my glance offers some endorsement of exhibitionism. I assume those curtains were deliberately open!

My final woofa is a companionable Red Heeler. I have actually been introduced, her name is Shiraz and her companion is another early walker. We coincidentally arrive in the park at about the same time, and now acknowledge a shared interest in canines, gardening, cooking and friendships! If the sky looks benevolent, we head to the nearby café for a natter, lattes and a dog-a-chino water bowl, lubricating the opportunities for shared confidences.

I am about to mention my earlier exercising exponent’s exposure, but before I could, Shiraz starts a low growl. A large-framed person is approaching, and I recognise Gotfried trotting on a lead. The frame suggests male; the skirt, shoes and makeup suggest an alternative.  As they pass, I am sure I see a sensually intended wink thrown in my direction.

I ponder events. I realise those open curtains were obviously an intentional offering. Albeit ever so brief, is my glance a gifted endorsement of his exposure?

I left school after Intermediate and started working at Myer(s). It felt so grown up to be wearing that black uniform: the ladies in their finery, coming and going.

My girlfriends used to call me a flirt. They had it wrong; I just liked being around moustached men. It was probably my brother’s Air Force growth – it extended well beyond his cheeks, curling down at the ends, always his pride and joy. I had consequently come to place a certain measure of a man’s worth by his facial hair. Henry’s moustache got my attention.

I started work on the second floor, in Lingerie. Lift operator Henry’s hirsute offerings set my mind a-tingle. He sat on a little three-legged stool in the corner of the wood-paneled elevator. He slid open the grille door, reminding us to “Watch your step, Ladies”, then engaged the circular brass controller to transport us:  left sent us down to the Ground Floor; to the right, up to our individual floors.

We girls often took extra trips, just to engage Henry. His left leg gently thumped the floor in time to some inwardly followed beat, his right stump had the trouser leg deftly tucked back under the knee, and pinned. He wore a neat row of medal miniatures on his left chest.

I knew there was something special about that moustache, and the man behind it.  If I got to work fifteen minutes early, I had Henry to myself. He sometimes stopped the lift mid-floor, we chatted, our conversations increasingly moving towards our shared interests. I mentioned my brother, in the Air Force at the end of the War. I once even bought his Swagger Stick to work – a conversation piece, that upon reflection, was a bit silly. Henry volunteered that he had had one too, once, but he would not be drawn on his military service, or amputation.

I had to share him at ‘elevenses, as we girls rode up to the 3^rd floor Cafeteria – Staff Section, but I sensed he especially liked me. His hand once darted out to steady me as I stumbled at the cage door – such soft hands. I stumbled a few times in the weeks ahead.

I occasionally rode the lift during business hours, listening to his spiel: “Level One, Women’s Fashions”, then “Level Two – Lingerie, Shoes, Accessories ”; then Cafeteria; Furnishings; Haberdashery; Kitchenware; Men’s Fashions, and on up to the spectacular transformation of the top floor at Christmas – Santa’s Cave and the Toy Department.

Henry had an invaluable sense of the customer, even a lift full of excited four-year-olds and was able to adjust his patter accordingly.  I was dazzled.

I was working up the courage to invite him out for tea, to our local Café, but he disappeared. I came to work on Monday and a clean-shaven face greeted me!  “Nah, Henry left last Friday. I’m not sure, but I think someone said this morning that he had had to go up to Sydney. My name’s Trevor.”

I check the gate monitor and confirm it is the usual Coles delivery guy: Joe, I think his name is. I hit the remote and watch as the gate slid smoothly aside. The truck parks in the driveway and I watch the gate close.

Four boxes of groceries, two chiller bags of perishables and a box of booze (six pinot grigio and two scotch) are deposited on the porch. I acknowledge Joe with a wave through the window.  He has delivered here before and understands the drill. He smiles and waves, climbing back into his truck and waits for me to open the grill.

It is shut and I unlatch the mortice deadlock, the security chain, and the security screen, quickly moving the supplies into the hallway. Both doors are secured and I start sorting out the boxes; transferring the chiller and frozen goods first. The booze goes onto the racks in the study and the groceries I unpack onto their labelled shelves in the pantry, ensuring the new tins sit behind the existing stock, to maintain best before date order. Bottles stand separately, and I refill the labelled jars with self-raising and plain flour, cous cous, pasta, rock salt. All OK.

Everything is ticked off my list save … wait a minute. I go back into the pantry. Nope, they are not here. I upend the various empty boxes and bags. Oh hell, bugger, they have forgotten them!

I am almost out and I specifically asked Coles for two dozen. How could this happen? They did this once last year, too! I send off a curt email expressing my anger at their oversight. I demand acknowledgment and immediate delivery.

Six o’clock, and they still haven’t arrived! I retreat upstairs, to the bedroom. I am not panicking, although I am now perspiring and the fingers on my right hand are starting to drum a tattoo on the bedside table.

What if there’s a power outage during the night? Or there is a burglar or a car accident in the street and they hit the buzzer, looking for help? It’s been four hours since I emailed them: still no response or deliveries!

There is a chill in the room and I slip under the covers. My phone emits a soft ‘brrring’, presaging a text. “Sorry for the mix-up. Your order is important to us but all of our staff are busy fulfilling deliveries. We will have them on the first available truck tomorrow morning. Again, our sincere apologies. Andy”

I hunker further under the covers, my mind races, possible deadly scenarios swirl. What if … oh hell. I am shaking, sweat stings my eyes. I’m starting to panic!

I climb into the wardrobe, pushing blouses and slacks aside and find security on the shelf above the draws. Fingertips and toes establish my boundaries, a warm comforting fug: I doze.

Daylight. I shower, dress and cook raisin bread. 9 am and the gate buzzes. My AA batteries are delivered. Finally. Thank God!

Is it Tuesday, Thursday, or Friday? I know it’s not Wednesday – we didn’t have porridge today. I heard an ambulance yesterday.

I nurse my strong black tea and shortbread biscuit, ruminating, hunkered down on the verandah at the Old Folk’s home. A privacy screen separates me from his now empty room. It also protects me from the chill wind. The sun struggles, a patch of weak blue between a wash of blotchy grey clouds.

We have been close mates for decades – first, in the mid-70s sharing an old, semi-ruined stone hut in the bush, north of town; then a flash, three-bedroom house in the ’burbs. He is the best man at my wedding, and also the midwife when the dog delivers six pups on my waterbed. We often sing together at the folk club, using his old guitar to accompany our doleful duets.

I’m transferred 500 kilometres northward, with occasional catch-ups serving as the umbilical. My work demands are full-on, incessant travel, partnered interests, we lose that close intimacy until about a year later, another transfer, further north and we’re both back in the same office: work trips, weekend parties, dinners, camping expeditions.

A year on and I transfer to the ‘big smoke’. He follows not long after, and we both buy 5-acre blocks two kilometres apart, both building ‘unusual’ houses: ours of bluestone his, exposed corrugated iron. He is now partnered and our foursome enjoy close camaraderie. Our kids arrive, he moves south, and we are reduced to sporadic snippets. We hear that he and his gal have ‘split the blanket’.

Our kids grow, I change careers and start unending travel around the globe. I take it for eight years before resigning and eventually another significant shift into southern climbs, albeit we’re still eight hundred kilometres apart.

But we do manage to catch up. Maybe twice yearly we roll swags, gather billy cans, tucker, booze and head out into the bush: seated fireside, reminiscing and quiet enjoyment in each other’s company. We’ve both gained fifteen years, but we’re still travelling well.

Another fifteen years pass. I move again. We now share the same State, now just 200 kilometres apart. I make the trip up to his place every couple of months and we take off further north, across the wide, flat plains. He occasionally comes down to our place.

Body’s ache, bladders and memories falter, frustrations intrude. He takes up an offer of a daughter’s Granny-Flat, only an hour away. I undertake regular grandchildren’s minding. Contact decreases.

Months pass, and countless suggested camping trips are rejected. I am told weeding, building new vegetable beds, fencing, family and medical commitments, feeding and watering livestock – all take precedence! Things drift. Have I offended him or is it something else?

Mind and body start to fail. Fifty years and we’re back into direct physical contact, but mental frailties erode function, awareness and conviviality. We share a table at mealtimes, but … sad tears flow as the empty, dark eternity approaches.

“I’m a pensioner. How much to mow the grass?” I suggested I come around; a time was set for the following Tuesday.

The place was locked up tighter than Fort Knox. There was no front gate, but a high, locked metal barrier divided off the front and back yards. I rang the bell and a slight, white-haired ‘granny’ opened the door behind the locked security grill. I identified myself and was told to “Hang on; I’ll go and unlock the side gate. I’ll meet ya there.” A minute later and “Hello, I’m Marj.” Two small children were hanging around her legs; one I reckon was about two, sucking her thumb earnestly, big blue eyes full of enquiring wonder at the stranger talking to Gran.

I was introduced to Stevie, I thought about four and Charlotte, the blue-eyed thumb sucker. Both were forcibly held back while I was quickly ushered through the barrier. It was secured behind me, despite the pleas from both children to go and join the other kids in the street.

It was a huge, bare backyard; long, matted, drying grass and little else, reflecting an allotment at the end of a cul de sac – narrow frontage and wide back. It must have been nearly seventy metres, from side to side.

We established a ‘mate’s rate’ for the mowing, and over the next couple of years, I learnt to appreciate the strengths of this gritty powerhouse. Three grandkids living with her, two daughters, both enjoying ‘Her Majesty’s’ pleasure and an aged pension to cover all necessaries. She held a pervading mistrust of the world, balanced against a kindness that flowed up and around her. There was an occasional sense of humour.

The third child, Bailey was maybe thirteen. He was sometimes present during my visits. He loved mechanics and I found him an old mower to fiddle with. I saw evidence that he had got it working, but he’d disappeared. Marg told me he went to Queensland, to be with his dad.

Her mission, as she put it, was to break ‘the cycle’; to provide a safe, happy environment for the ‘littuns’. It meant a fairly isolated existence for them, but she was determined to minimise the influence of her disadvantage on the kids.

We occasionally talked, a glass of water midway through mowing provided some conversational insights into her world. I gathered she’d had her unfair share of tribulations. The kids occasionally played outside during my mowing, but not often. Marg’s eyes were ever watchful!

I had to remove a couple of fruit trees at another job. I asked Marg if she could use them. The apricot and peach trees were being regularly watered and fertilised by the children and in my final year, after harvest, they helped me do a light prune.

I retired. I now help to look after my own two grandkids, one or two nights a week. It is a delight, but an aging body constrains capacities. An admiring memory of Marj surfaces.

Why on earth do they schedule tennis during the summer months? I understand it is a traditional summer sport, but the infrastructure going into things these days; the huge, indoor centres with their capacity to close the roofs, the air conditioning: I mean, why is it still necessary to follow the sun?

I have been on the international circuit for ten years, another ten as a junior: the early coaching, the local, and eventual national competitions maturing and honing my game. But the long exposures: days, and weeks in the baking, unrelenting sun have taken a toll on my skin; long ago losing its supple, smooth tone. Visiting the skin cancer clinic is a part of my off-season professional routine.

I carry a small brush in my bag to lather myself in suncream before the matches. It’s actually one of Dad’s small paintbrushes. My Celtic heritage, the trademark reddish hair, the fair skin, the freckles all provide countless column inches for the tabloids.

I suffer and after last January’s outing in Melbourne, I realised I have had enough. At the pressa’, following my loss to Raffa, I gave the media a bit of a spray. Australia, with its rampant skin cancer statistics, still think it’s acceptable to expose us to this extreme southern hemisphere slow roast.

The administrators introduced on-court ice-packs and chilled water, ever our own eskies next to the couches: umbrellas, to boot, but then they just sit back, happily counting the numbers, calculating the profits, while we entertain the crowds, sometimes with five sets on court temperatures reaching 50+ degrees. Something has to change!

My game suffered. No matter the gruelling gym routines, the unending practice sessions, the endurance training; as the seasons rolled around: Melbourne, London, Paris and New York, the hotels, the constant, pressured environment; it all took a toll. I saw one headline accusing me of being a lazy player, always favouring the drop shot and the backhand slice, reducing court movement to a minimum, instead of their preferred baseline play. I instructed my agent to write a ‘stinger’ to that bloody journo.

Yes, I’m giving it away. I have three Grand Slam singles titles and two Olympic golds to my name. I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. I have climbed the ‘tree’, but the input is unsustainable. Yep, I know I’m in a rarified club, able to bring Kim, and the kids along as we swing around the globe, but enough is enough. After New York – finito!

I feel a slight prick as the needle goes into my shoulder. As I lie back on the table, I reflect on that last slice against Novak, it dropped ineffectually into the net. The match was lost, but the crowd were appreciatively cheering; on their feet, whistling, clapping loudly as we both made our way to the net. Holding back tears, I bade farewell to the circuit.

The surgeon takes up her scalpel. I doubt if this will be the last slice!

Can ya be in love with ya memories? That’s the question swirling around me head, ever since last June’s bust-up with Bruce.

He reckons we have ta move closer to town! Can you imagine? Three bedrooms on a quarter acre, lawn mowing, neighbours, traffic and kids hooning around. I betcha the Holden will be stolen to do burnouts down the street. “Bruce, we’ll be up to our necks in humbug. Jees, we’ll have to get one of those phones to talk on, as you walk around. And we don’t even know anyone’s number!”

We come from different sides of the ‘tracks’: him, the posh side. I live with Dad, forty miles up a dirt track, in the hills behind town. Dad builds our shack when he gets Mum up the duff. I come along, and with the dogs, me bi-cycle and the horses, we’re as happy as Larry.

Mum eventually pisses off, and that suits me and Dad fine. No more empty flagons smashed at the bottom of the hill! She takes off with the petrol station bloke. Never hear from ‘er again.

I go to school, sometimes: when Dad needs to buy stuff in town. The dogs ride in the back, tails an tongues flyin’, thirsty as buggery when Dad leaves them in the Ute while he has a few frothies. He’s pissed when he picks me up, but outta town, I take over the driving!

I meet Bruce at school. At lunchtimes, we sneak down behind the dunnies for a ciggie. Over time it becomes a bit of a grope-session, but it gets us outta class. Everyone reckons we’re sweethearts. I suppose we are, and it’s no surprise when he eventually moves in.

Dad gets lung cancer. I take him to the doctor. Sargeant Whatsit pulls me over at the edge of town but when he sees Dad, we get a right-royal express trip, sirens and all, straight to the hospital.

There is an old hayshed near town. I sleep here for a few weeks, seeing Dad every day. I go into the shop and buy him some grapes. It’s a bit of a joke, but he laughs and laughs, in between coughing.

Three weeks and he tells me to take him home. I argue, but he’s a stubborn old bastard. The nurses chucked his old clobber out, so I drop into the clothes shop – The Leisure Wear Emporium – and get him some new stuff. He looked bloody flash.

Back home he lasts a few months. The Doc comes out with some pills. Dad prefers my huge, home-rolled joints. God, I miss him!

The shack is my own temple now. A ginormous photo of Dad hangs on my bedroom wall.

Bruce moves in after the funeral. It lasts a couple of years before he pisses off. I hear he takes up with the sheila at the pub: the blond floozy! They’re living in a townhouse, garden, lawns, the whole shebang!

Bugger ‘em. Me, and my dad, are happy!

Things were looking grim. My part-pension and small nest-egg just weren’t covering the ever-increasing cost of the overheads for myself and the five cats. Tears and sleepless nights didn’t help. I needed a job. I had retired from a Nursing Home carer’s role a few years ago. I felt totally lost!

Pension Day and I saw the note stuck to our local supermarket’s window. “Help wanted.”

I only knew her as Anne but she was friendly when I made my approach. “Yep, deary. Maybe. We generally get kids after school filling these jobs, but … er. I’ll let yer know.” I gave her my number, collected a few groceries and tripped off home, my nerves jingling, but with a sense of achievement quietly boosting my ego and mood.

“Have you ever worked these new-fangled tills” Anne asked, when she called me the next day? I stretched things a little, remembering my regular shifts in the school canteen. “I was a check-out chick a few years ago, it has been a while, probably a bit rusty but I am a quick learner,” I replied.

I got the job, and despite a sleepless night, here I was, Day One, the early morning shift, mostly milk, bread, papers and forgotten lunchbox fillers.

The barcode reader did the heavy lifting. Anne kept an eye on me but my confidence grew as the morning progressed. Standing up for hours was going to be an issue – at least toilet breaks got me off my feet!

A lady asked me about the triangle, next to the recycling advice on the bottom of a packet of biscuits. I had to admit I had no idea what it meant! She was a bit huffy but Anne reassured me that “the silly old Biddy asks the same question every time she comes into the shop. Don’t worry about her.” I was getting into the swing, even offering “Got much on for the rest of today” with sincere disinterest!

Lunchtime – my feet were killing me and my lower back felt like a vice had been applied. But I was still going strong and I hadn’t messed up too many items. The vegetables were the trickiest – I had never come across Endive, or Celeriac. Both of those transactions were helped by the customer providing guidance as I flicked through the online menu.

Anne asked me if I could do the afternoon shift. “OK”, I bravely said. Three thirty and the kids started to arrive. Anne warned me to be on the lookout for “… the little smart arses”. I was totally swamped – it was a tsunami of lollies, muesli bars, chips and soft drinks. I suspected one girl had a bag of chips up her jumper. I queried her overly plumped chest – she swore, called me an old cow and ran out of the shop.

That flummoxed me, but again, Anne came across and reassured me. “Yep, we get ‘em. She’ll be back in a week’s time. We’ll be ready for her.”

It is the first weekend in our brand new home! Boxes are spread from arse to breakfast and unpacking is going to be the order of the day. A very pregnant Ruth has lists on lists, details of where everything is to go. She is still asleep!

The kettle boils, and I pop a tea bag in, to draw. The doorbell rings. “Hullo, my name is Rodja” says a small urchin, sucking earnestly on a chupa chup. He is wearing a pyjama top and thongs. He comes into the living room and makes a beeline for the kitchen. He deposits his chupa into the pyjama’s pocket, settles at the breakfast bar and proceeds to finish off my bowl of muesli.

“Where’s Ben” he queries. Before I can get a handle on things, I ask who Ben is. “He lives here. With his sister Sarah and Mummy and Daddy. Who are you?”

The chupa is back in his mouth, and a line of colourful dribble is mixing with cereal milk residues, tracking indirectly down his face. As I watch, the sparkling flecks are reaching the edge of his chin, momentarily hesitating, consolidating before dropping neatly down onto his pyjama top.

Rodja heads for the back door and out into the yard where he unceremoniously reaches the lemon tree and projects a modest stream! He tells me that Ben, Sarah and he have been practising but Sarah can’t do it. He asks again where Ben is.

Ruth appears at the back door, a smile of welcome faltering as she sees the small, semi-naked boy at the lemon tree. “Who is he?” “I haven’t the foggiest.” “We are moving soon. I want to say tut-tah to Ben and Sarah.”

The doorbell rings again. We all head back inside and meet a woman we take to be Rodja’s Mum. “Is he here? The movers arrived a few minutes ago and he must have slipped out the door while I was busy with them.” “Oh, excuse me: Molly Waters, two doors up. This is where his best friends Ben and Sarah live, or they did until a couple of weeks ago. He practically lives here.” “Come on Roger, let’s get you home, into the shower, clothes and some breakfast.”

The chupa is continuing to dribble down his chin. I notice the sparkly splodges on the kitchen and loungeroom floors, but he happily anchors a sticky hand into his Mum’s, and leaves. We assure Rodja that he is most welcome to come again. Molly smiles over her shoulder.

We entertain Rodja several times over the next few days. He continues to look around, in case Ben is hiding behind one of the doors, in a bedroom, or in the bathroom. He loves Muesli, and with Molly’s say-so, we share a couple of bowls of cereal together.

Rodja’s big day arrives and we are on the footpath waving good-bye, he at his window yelling to us not to forget to say tut-tah to Ben.

I do like the roominess of that seat immediately behind the driver, but their head spoils my view. I need to get an uninterrupted vista to ensure I count the mileage posts accurately.

Some councils put the distance markers on the left. This means I need a left-hand seat, towards the very front of the bus. But I notice that some regional bus routes have the signage on the right, some even alternate, between left and right. I must secure the whole back seat to cope with this scenario.

I’m at the head of the queue as my bus pulls into the depot. I am ready, but inexplicably, it parks in the next bay. I admit surprise but am quickly forging my way towards the front of that queue. An old biddy grumbles as I kick her bag. I glare at her; she drops her gaze and my expression leaves her in no doubt about the dangers of the trip hazard her bag creates.

There is a soft, pneumatic hiss as the narrow double doors open. The girl with the baby slung on her chest moves towards the handrail. I deftly manoeuvre my hand under hers and take a proprietary grip on the rail, heaving myself up. She retreats and bleats a softly-spoken “sorry” to my back. I swipe my Myki and survey the nearly empty interior.

The mileage counters won’t start until we take the exit, in 6.8 kilometres – and they will be on the left. I will need a left-hander: perfect, as I slide into the second row. I have my yellow notepad and pencil out. I will use the Freeway’s linear swathe to make any necessary adjustments to my seating. The young mum throws a withering scowl and the aged biddy follows suit, as they both sidestep past me up the aisle. Bugger both of em, I think.

There are a couple of asthmatic wheezes as the bus exits the depot and moves out into the traffic. I hear the ticking of his indicator as he moves across into the middle lane. We rumble along, all sweet and predictable but my senses are tweaked as I hear the indicator again. We are moving into the extreme right-hand lane. Hang on – you’re making a mistake! We’ll miss our exit. Hey, get back into the centre, you bloody fool!

He ignores my silent protests and before I can alert him, he climbs into a right-hand overpass and exits the freeway. This is madness. There’s a marker, E 16. No, no. I look around and spy a right-hand seat towards the back. I grab my bag and hurriedly move. A second distance marker whizzes past.

I note the two markers on my pad and breathlessly start to consider what is happening. The driver is obviously lost. I will alert him to his mistake.

My day is in tatters. I reassess things. Am I missing any counters? Oh my God, is that a marker? Bugger, now I am totally, absolutely flummoxed!

My new, seventy-something neighbour, Mary Jane, often stands in her doorway, or sometimes she sits on the grass verge, actually just a patch of weeds. She always has a dopey look, apparently focused on the joint across the road, the one with the pot-hole in the driveway. She will sit and stare for hours.

I discuss her behaviour with my medically-trained Uncle Dave. He ruminates and then declares that he knows the condition. “She is probably suffering withdrawals, a terrifying time warp, sometimes offering heaven, other times hell,” he says.

It all starts in October 2021. She buys the house next door; sharing a glass of homemade lemonade on our front verandah while waiting for her furniture van to arrive. It eventually does and her ‘… thanks for the drink,” are the last words we hear from her for over a year. No words; no loud, nor soft music, come to think of it; no expletives drifting over the back fence; gardening noises; no accidental flatulence; nothing. Absolute quietude, as though next door is gone.

There is an exception to my observations: after dark, on the last Friday of the month, I hear her gate noisily open, and moments later her magnificent old VW Beetle roundly churbles into life, and off they go into the night. Every month, it is the same.

I eventually succumbed to my own curiosity. I have a nanna nap in preparation for a night-time adventure. I am in the car after dinner as I hear her gate open. I drive up the road and park where I know she will pass. Moments later I am tailing her through suburban streets, finally turning out onto the wide, divided freeway.

At that hour it is a dark, deserted highway, the occasional truck, not much else. I keep my distance, following the pair of red orbs. 40 kilometres later she finally pulls into a surprisingly lovely place, city lights spreading out below. A truck is already there.

I pass them, making a U-turn and carefully return, my parking hidden by the medium strip plantings. I creep through the undergrowth, across the lanes towards the back of the truck. In the stillness of the night, there were voices, I note she rolls and lights up a zephyr.

A cool wind is gently moving through my hair as I creep closer. The night is chilly, I think I hear a deep voiced “Welcome, what kept ya?” before the wind whips the conversation away. Then “… but that’s exorbitant, they can’t charge that! Why the increase?” A gruff response “That’s the offer, it’s what’s available, take it or leave it. I gotta keep moving!” Towards the front of the truck, I see my neighbour proffer cash.

A few weeks later I am enjoying a Spliff n Barbie, the breeze carrying the heady smoke downwind. A face appears, she negotiates the fence effortlessly. ‘Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place,’ she hums as she grabs a sausage from the BBQ. .

You can’t ignore that loud voice. Even above the noise of the tram groaning along Gertrude Street, nobody need eavesdrop; that voice scotches any demand for such social impropriety.

And those wonderfully raw, dropped consonants. You won’t hear those from a private school! “Ya know dear, walking from ta tram stop, ya turn left inta Gore Street, that’s where they found ‘em, ta bodies, some ‘eadless – in that old derelict ‘ouse …”. The tram rattles on, but with that last titbit, you, and the others, are hanging on her every word. You can just imagine the headless bodies lying around the house.

Hang on, she is getting off. She knows she has you, and most of the other travellers, all wanting a conclusion, or further details.  You’re going to get off too? And those other couple of women, gathering things together; there are flurried movements on the tram.  You are all wearing that harried look, despairing of missing out on the ending, driving you, like Lemmings, towards the door.

On the pavement, you all hesitate, pretending to straighten skirts, adjusting demeanours, playing for time until she declares her path. Then off you all, independently, troop.

She is still gabbling at the top of her lungs. “…Police was called, but …”, and “…ya know, like dem Spanish tarts tangoing, cass-nettes, Ole’, ‘uge earrings …” and then, “… reports of loud, racy music in ta evenings. Old blokes, never any ladies, coming an’ going. Well, natchurley, wees’ all thort …”

You need to get closer, her voice has dropped, the words are being whipped away on the cool morning breeze. You catch a sneaky, over-shoulder glance, a grin. You sense that she is actually stringing you, and the other girls, along. Her voice drops almost to a whisper, as she confides more of the grisly details to her travelling companion.

You are so immersed in the story that you almost bowl her over, as she executes a sudden manoeuvre, a sort of a left-hand twist, at what must be her front gate? “Ta-ra, Doreen, see ya tomorrer”.  You attempt composure, but you are all non-plussed, caught without an explanation for finding yourselves in unfamiliar streets, literally on the heels of this quite intriguing storyteller.  You try a discreet shuffle, a whole-of-body movement as if to confirm an awakening, a realisation that you got off at the wrong tram stop. Two of your compatriots turn, forced into tactful retreats, back towards the next, onwards tram.

What the heck, the game is up. You open with “Hello. I couldn’t help but overhear…”.

With a triumphant smirk, she turns, and trumpets, “Well, as I was sayin’, wees’ all thort it was a knock shop. Been vacant for years. Last week, ta young kids broke in. Theys found ‘eadless bodies: ta cops found old dressmaker’s dummies, some ‘eadless, with flouncy dresses, wigs, make up, ta whole nine yards. In ta lounge, theys also found an old broken, wooden sign, promotin’ Fred and Ginger’s Lido Dance Academy.”

My troublesome neighbours are, in fact, delightful companions to have next door! A few parties, and a wandering cat. But you’ve gotta pick when to pop in! The other day I desperately needed a smoke. I had run out. Their front gate squeaked.

“Hiya, wanna cuppa? Kettle’s just boiled.” Julie was hunkered down in her favourite seat on the verandah, out of the wind and catching the watery, winter sunshine. “Here’s the rollies, help yourself.”

“Kylie popped in the other day as I was sitting here. She needed to use the loo and suggested we should go shopping. She’s after one of those new earbuds; the ones with the pink and grey stripes? Nichole got a pair last week. Apparently, they deliver great sound, and you can just imagine those colours against her new green cardigan!”

“Talking of being caught short, I was in the kitchen making scones earlier, and I ran out of self-raising flour. I luckily had some baking powder, and I mixed two tablespoons into the plain flour. It worked a treat, and with the lime marmalade, they will be great for morning tea. Jason will be home shortly. He had to go to the doctor for his annual prostate thingy. Ya know where they stick their finger up – oh yer, ya know all about that, don’t ya!”

“It levels the playing field a bit – we ladies have all of those fingers prodding, and those bloody cold speculums and it, well, ya know, it sorta levels things a bit.”

“I was talking to Melissa last week, and she has found this amazing recipe for spaghetti bog. Ya fry the onions first, then add everything else quickly, so ya don’t burn it. She uses the premium mince. It doesn’t cost that much extra and, while there is still a bit of water in it, it’s nowhere near as much as the ordinary stuff!”

“We are going to have plums tonight. I thought I would give Jason a treat. Renee says she sometimes adds vanilla to her custard as Darren really likes that. I cheat and buy the ready-made stuff from IGA. It is only $3.79, for nearly a litre!”

At that moment I made a commitment to never, ever, run out of smokes again!

Cluster lived across the street from us in Fitzroy. Fitzroy East, according to Cluster and if he could have arranged it, would have done away with Smith Street, and had us living in Collingwood!

He was a fanatical ‘Pies supporter, went to all the games, and training sessions! He had painted his fence pickets black and white, ate vegemite on de-crusted white bread in summer, and an infinite number of dog’s eyes and dead horse throughout the winter. He once explained his diet in terms of the pies and sauce, representing the defeated foes from Saturday’s match and the black and white sandwiches providing off-season “…encouragement to the lads!”

We loved Cluster, even though he was a bit of a mad bastard! There was a distinct whiff to him too, if you got downwind. He umpired our cricket games, arguments as well, if needed. He found us a set of wickets to replace the battered rubbish bins. He had stories too, of Squizzy Taylor and the local Push. He sold newspapers at the home games, and that got us into the ground, as assistants – we learnt to deliver “Heresya ‘erald, Inya ‘argus” like pros!

On Sundays, Cluster appeared in a collared shirt, Pies’ tie, a frayed, food-stained sports coat, shiny-arsed pants and a pork pie atop his balding pate! I followed him once. He kept to the narrow, cobbled laneways but eventually, with a knock at a side door, entered the Empress of India pub.

There, old Ma Harris maintained a knowledgeable Sunday trade with the coppers collecting a few bottles on the side. Everybody was happy, and Cluster emerged, clutching a paper bag with his couple of Richmond Bitters.

Towards the end of April, Cluster would go a bit funny. Late at night he could be seen marching up and down the street crying, screaming, ducking and weaving. On Anzac Day, with his chest of medals, he would be off early to St Kilda Road, comrades to meet, memories to relive, thirst to quench, coins to toss! We learnt to steer clear of him until early May!

With the footy season’s arrival, he’d cheer up and became Old Cluster again. He was our mate and thinking back on things, everybody in the street had a soft spot for Cluster. He put bins in and out for the neighbourhood, did unbidden odd jobs, ran the Cup Sweep in November and with his grizzled chin, was often called upon to don the Red Suit!

Twenty years later, Mum sent me a cutting – the Sun’s Death Notices. I was puzzled as I read “Members of the Collingwood Football Club are saddened at the death of Scott Maurice, son of Ian and Salome Trebilcock.”

Cluster finally explained!

Francesca’s finger flew high, blood trailing, arcing gracefully, before hitting the ground somewhere in the crowd, a claw attached, her screams momentarily silencing the tightly-packed bar. “O Gesu Mio” as the sight of her pulsing, bloody stump was absorbed by the stunned crowd!

Notwithstanding Covid restrictions, Darwin’s Lims’ Hotel bar seethed – humanity, humidity, beers, laughter, murderous crabs, numbered contestants, and carapaces competing in the annual Northern Territory Barefoot Mud Crab Tying contest: “The quickest to secure three Muddies wins the purse!”

We needed the $4,000 purse if we were ever going to get back home to Umbria. The Top End was the end of our WWOOF holiday, next stop home, we hoped.

Tiwi Islander crab-tying expert, Pius Puruntatamirri, had been honing Francesca’s skills for weeks. As the doctor applied a tourniquet to her stump and a few grams of morphine into her arm, I think about what steps she might have forgotten? Her tears continued to fall, but I sensed the pain eased as she too, reviewed the steps she’d applied to immobilize her quarry.

That first crab had been secured beautifully – no more than twenty-four seconds with the beasty on its back, front nippers pressed firmly into position, tied off, toe released, flinging the muddie into the basket, and advancing towards numero due!

A bit of a setback, nearly putting a toe into 100mm of vicelike, snapping claw. But a deft sidestep, toe holding shell down, in, under its guard, the string neatly in behind the nippers, out and around, drawing chord back between the upper and lower claws. Gotcha, the string taught and tied off. Fifty-six seconds!

Pius had warned her, “you get lazy after number two …. ya gotta keep ya focus, stay on guard”, he said. “They are cheeky buggers, strong too, real damage follows any mistake.”

Numero tre was an absolute brute! Three kilograms of solid, meat-filled frame! They circled each other, claws clacking menacingly, stalked eyes locked on her, each considering their opponent’s possible weaknesses. They sparred! The time ticked off: “Seventy-five seconds” the crowd roared, as she feinted to the left, string ready, a move to the right, the manoeuvre catching Muddie off guard.

This was it, and she was in, quick as a flash, foot raised, her big toe moving down, behind, onto Muddie, in practised anticipation of the restraint, string strategically moving into position for the first loop, around, and onto those bloody monstrous claws. Italia here we come. She told me later that at that moment, her Nonna and Mumma embraced her, welcoming her home!

The crowd chanted “100 seconds”. Forty-five more would set a record.

OK, she’s focused. Watch out for that right masher, wow that was close. Carefully does it. The left claw is secured, merda, she’s missed the right one. From the back, easy, slip it over and … the bugger has bitten through the string! Surely that isn’t allowed. Can you appeal? Hesitation, I looked across at Pius. There was a scream. Someone yelled, “Look out!”