Category Archives: family

0

To Alex and Max, on our Hobart Holiday

|

Dear Alex and Max

If Bali was about tropical warmth and Sydney was about the mesmerising beauty of the harbour, Hobart was something else entirely — a trip defined by the vertical. From the bonkers sub-zero winds atop Mount Wellington to the windowless caverns of MONA, we spent our days either climbing or descending.

There’s something generous about arriving in a city on a Friday. Irregular seagull cries above our heads — oddly rare in Glenelg — heightened the maritime atmosphere. On Elizabeth Street, we explored Tommy Gun Records from which Alex emerged with the vinyl of Spiritualized’s classic album Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space. You’re certainly an audiophile or crate-digger! How you spoke about its musical and cultural qualities was astonishing. I also liked our first trip to Banjo’s bakery — which originated in Tasmania. Max’s comment that, ‘There’s nothing here I wouldn’t eat’ is a truism.

Down by the Brooke Street and Elizabeth Street piers, we strode about. Admiring a giant ocean liner at Macquarie Wharf no. 5, Max told us he’s planning a cruise once school is done. I’m always heartened by this kind of aspiration and the widescreen and global nature of your hopes. Pepperoni pizza from Medici — conveniently located on Murray Street for all your Italian cuisine needs — and inhaled in our Allurity Hotel room was an excellent conclusion to our first day.

Half of the Apple Isle squeezes into the Salamanca Markets on Saturday mornings, all there for gin, juice, and scallop pie tastings. Max and I hung back while Alex bought himself some outrageously overpriced (artisan) biscuits. Aboard the MONA ROMA fast ferry, we took in the River Derwent — low-rise bungalows on modest hills, the jaunty angles of Bellerive Oval’s light towers. After sightseeing at ground level, then came our descent into the subterranean playground of the museum.

I loved watching you both interrogate that place. It’s a confusing, jarring, and often brilliant maze. Whether we were traversing the colossal concrete war — evoking, for me, the brutality of a concentration camp, the sparks installation, or the Fat Car Porsche, I appreciated how you engaged with both heart and head. We talked about what constitutes art and what does not. Another highlight was the psychedelic band Spooky Eyes and their boisterous set on the MONA lawn.

The Uber drive up Mount Wellington was unforgettable. Terror always does this to me. Leaving the gentle suburban streets, we watched the trees shrink until there was only ancient, shattered rock and a sky that felt far too close. Standing at the summit, looking down at the tiny toy-town of Hobart below — the three of us were, momentarily, the highest beings in the city.

Hiking down was a test of more than just our legs; it was a test of our resilience against that piercing Tasmanian wind and for me alone, the fear of tumbling into the abyss and becoming wallaby food. Watching you both steer between the boulders — Alex leading the way and Max offering the dry commentary that has become his trademark — I was struck by how appreciative you both are of the wilder parts in this world.

Battery Point provided a genteel contrast. Wandering those handsome streets with the sandstone cottages and a southerly sun on our faces, it felt like we’d stepped into 1800s Cornwall. It’d been a bakery trip, and our grand final was at Jackman and McRoss, surely a Michelin-starred pie shop! With table service and desserts for both younger Randalls, this was a triumph.

Pausing in Arthur Circus, you both jumped on the swings and suddenly, it was a decade ago in any of a dozen playgrounds. For the final time in Hobart, we’d another vertical moment.

Thank you for liking the steep climbs, and the strange art. You both have a knack for turning a simple walk through an old suburb or a trek up a mountain into a shared event. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about the moments in between.

And this, my witty, kind, dear boys, is all I can ask for.

Dad

xx

0

50,000 Residents of Corny Point Can’t Be Wrong

|

Woodsy was from Kadina and moved to Kapunda. We hung out. He was always bumping into people from Corny Point. We’d be at a Gold Coast theme park, clambering off a rollercoaster, and Woodsy would spy a bloke from there. Or walking through Kings Cross in Sydney, he’d run into two more. Always spotting somebody, he’d tear off to chat and upon his return Lukey or Chrisso or I’d inquire, ‘Corny Point?’ — and Woodsy would reply, ‘Yeah.’ And then tell us all about it. After a while, I wondered if 50,000 people must have lived there.

Claire and I stayed in Marion Bay and drove to Corny Point. The first Friday of this year seemed perfect for this. I expected the township to be by the beach. Instead, it was inland, at the crossroads — caravan park, CFS, community church.

The Corny Point Cricket Club is also in the middle of town. Two sprinklers gallantly try to brighten the grass around the pitch. There are cosy clubrooms with old wooden benches and a couch in its alcove. I imagine the clatter of a bat being flung by a disgruntled batsman. Then, a spurt of applause for a crisp drive scurrying over the baked outfield — someone encouraging, ‘Yeah, good shot, Blue.’

A neighbourhood book exchange sits by the cricket oval entrance — a windowed wooden box on a stand. We see these in many towns during our holiday. How great to have one right by the cricket ground? Claire and I flick through the collection. You could select a historical fiction title, park beneath a tree, and with the first innings underway, lose yourself in a few chapters, only glancing up when the thud of ball on willow disrupts your sleepy immersion. Later, just after tea, you could amble into the clubrooms and say, ‘I’ll have a shandy, thanks Fred.’ Cricket was always the most literary and dignified of sports — even here, in dusty Corny Point.

Parking on the beach, we absorb the panorama. The sand is crunchy beneath our toes. We’re both instantly delivered to our childhoods. The salty afternoon breeze is resuscitating. We wade about, the water shimmering. Claire remembers a holiday in Cooboowie. ‘It was one of the few times I remember Dad swimming,’ she offers. The wide and clean sand takes me to a place too. When I was ten, Mum, Dad, Jill, and I went to Port Vincent. I recall my plastic bucket of tiny crabs, scooped from the balmy sea. At Corny Point boats glide in. A tractor tugs out a fishing vessel. With the promise of fish, pelicans gather patiently. It’s among the best beaches I’ve visited.

The Howling Dog Tavern is named for a mention in Matthew Flinders’ journal. It was five-ish, so we veered into the carpark. Ours was the smallest vehicle there. Happy hour, and a noisy crowd’s in. The new owners dart about behind the taps, eagerly dispensing refreshment. With a Pike’s white and a Pale Ale, Claire and I take a pew on the veranda — where the ceiling fans bother away the flies. Folks drift in from the caravan park, or on Saturdays, from the cricket oval. For the hundredth time, I ask Claire, ‘What’s the difference between a pub and a tavern?’ We still don’t know. I wonder how many people in the buzzing bar know Woodsy. I’m sure at least one or two.

Driving out, I scan the crossroads one last time. I don’t see Woodsy, or too many of the 50,000 residents, but I finally understand.

2

Five Sentences, in Reverse Chronological Order, about the Queen’s Head

|

Vamoosing from our front-bar nook, we carry the lamentable lettuce cups out with us and I then drop Claire at the Gov, where she’s interpreting for Josh Pyke, who — recalling what she told him at his gig in April — offers a heart-swelling shout-out about our wedding and the role played in it by his exquisite song Sew Your Name.

Pausing our celebration amidst the pubbish murmurings, Claire does a gallery walk around the bar studying the sepia Adelaide Oval Test-cricket photos, and as we speculate about life a century ago for these bowler-hatted, stern-faced types, I try to orient the oval for her by pointing at one grainy image and saying ‘That’s north,’ which proves unhelpful when she replies, allegedly, ‘You know I find compass references troublesome.’

Devolving ever deeper into late-capitalism, a telling symbol of this is that the only youngsters in pubs are often those pulling the beers; tonight is no exception, though our barkeep is convivial as we order a bowl of wedges — gladdening and homely in their aroma — and a delicious-sounding plate of lettuce cups.

Returning bar-side, the aroma of deep-fried calamari wafting past our noses, we claim our second and final drinks — Claire’s now-established espresso martini and my Pale Ale — and linger over them at a secluded table beside the — is November 14 premature? — Christmas tree; before this, we’d opened our night with a white wine and a pint of Heineken, which I always forget is essentially European VB, though without its charismatic nose or middle-palate length.

Ambling through the brisk air into the Queen’s Head (my choice for this month) past a footpath table of chaps relaxed into their late-Friday residency, having parked our RAV4 on gently undulating, village-like Kermode Street after a ten-minute automotive crawl up Montefiore Hill — itself preceded by collecting Claire from the ghostly TAFE on Light Square — we begin the sixtieth edition of Mystery Pub.

2

As Childhood Slipped Away

|

You’re among the last of the 250-odd students to cross the stage. It’s the 2025 Brighton Secondary School valedictory event and I’m in Section E of the Adelaide Entertainment Centre. Adjusting my suit jacket, I browse about at the parents, siblings, and grandparents. Cologne pushes at me from a neighbouring dad. The jazz ensemble now hushes and we’re ready.

Our social contract is that we wait good-naturedly for our child to have their moment and be formally farewelled. I elect to clap each graduate while surveying their year 8 and year 12 photos, projected onto twin screens.

The sudden ruthless truth hit me this morning as I drove down Port Road, past the Entertainment Centre and saw the ceremony advertised on the colossal display. The height of the digital lettering was striking and the idea of you finishing school and entering the adult world became suddenly tangible and undeniable.

A long hour into the presentations and I’m impatient to see you. I repeatedly glance to the right of stage, hoping to spy you into the theatrical dark, searching for your blonde mop. But the unbroken procession of students persists.

Finally, your home group is announced. I can just see you in the wings: tall, cheerful, casual. Your turn approaches. An amplified voice says, ‘Alex Randall.’

I watch from Section E. Entering the stage, your long legs are relaxed and you’re respectfully laconic. I note that you’re purposeful but not panicked, in reaching centerstage. Years of drama productions have taught you to luxuriate in this, to add an extra beat. As a school student, it’s your final bow.

Now firmly under the spotlight, you arrive alongside the principal, Mr. Lunniss, and pause, beaming your easy smile. You almost look like you’ve just been told a small (Dad) joke and find it bemusing. Next to the angular, retiring educator, you establish your affable presence on the stage. There’s no arrogance in your stance, only a natural, infectious joy.

As you take your souvenirs — a navy-blue book and programme — my evening’s most poignant moment arrives. As your Dad, sitting in the vast auditorium, it sparks an inner welling and a hot tear for it shows heartening regard, and gratitude. It’s a hope-inspiring gesture, likely undetected by most in the audience, on this evening of goodbyes and celebrations.

You’ve told me you’ve no relationship with the principal and this is better than you being marched habitually into his office where he peers over his glasses and despairingly asks, ‘What have you done now, Randall?’ Instead, the reality is far more gracious. Beneath the arena lights I’m thrilled when Mr. Lunniss hands you the official gift of school stationery and you nod acknowledgment at him.

I instantly recognise this voluntarily offered thankfulness as a buoyant symbol. It’s gladdening. I wish for a dazzling adulthood in which you possess a sophisticated grasp of the silent machinery required to make life bend to your happy will.

Such was the equivalence that I could imagine you and the principal at a front bar: ‘Alex, your shout.’ It’s also, any witness would attest, a courteous transaction between two men — but with it away rushes the last of your childhood and in Section E, I’m an anonymous, hushed spectator.

The entire village has invested in you Alex, and some now watched on and could smile to themselves at the illuminating role they’d performed, the kindnesses they often extended, the gentle hands placed on your shoulder. It’s been an acutely elevating instance — a bright, cloudless dawn. A single, fleeting nod on a wide stage — and just like that, your school years are done.

0

The Light Around Dad’s 82nd Birthday

|

Those of us who drink red raised a glass to our patriarch. We enjoyed a glug of the 2006 Rockford’s Basket Press Shiraz — purple, velvety, immediately seductive. Dad, Claire, my nephew Mitchell, his girlfriend Alisha, and my son Alex all nodded their approval as Sunday lunch settled in with warm ease.

Under my sister Jill’s veranda, the cold November rain pushed in rudely — the kind that makes you reconsider going to the footy. We traded stories of Balinese dangers with cobras and scooters (Claire and me, imperilled), Kuta escapades (my cousin Ben, curious) and brazen prostitutes (Dad and Mum and my Uncle John and Aunty Liz, bemused).

Then, naturally, we drifted to Kapunda stories: antics in adolescent cars, the burning rubber of Uncle John’s Ford Zephyr (allegedly), and my HQ Holden versus the high-school fence (guilty, Your Honour). The following morning, I had to front, in glum succession, the school headmaster, the local Senior Sergeant, and of course Mum and Dad. All before breakfast.

A tickled Alex outlined his gap-year plans — Europe and the Stans: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan. I was suddenly distraught. Here was aural proof that he would soon be in the other hemisphere, an alien time zone, and forever vanished into adulthood.

Lunch was superb: lamb shoulder, roast chicken, and salads — vermicelli my standout — all made by Jill, a self-declared lover of cooking. She finished with a classic country pavlova piled with whipped cream and strawberries.

Still around the table, we sang Happy Birthday to Dad. I now remember that Americans don’t do the Jolly Good Fellow coda, which has always struck me as the spirited, fun bit of the tradition — the tune barrelling home, people lifting their volume and arm-swinging gusto. Ideal for the tone-deaf like me.

The previous afternoon, I’d gone in search of a shiraz, declaring that Dad’s birthday deserved a generous red and wandering the aisles of Dan’s, I spied some plonk that reminded me of an ageing bottle on the rack in the spare room. With that I left the store empty-handed, rushed home, rescued the dusty Basket Press Shiraz, and told Claire, ‘I was keeping it for a big occasion — and surely Sunday qualifies.’

It was instantly the best glass of wine I’ve ever had — and I hope everyone else felt the same. Context is everything, and it was superior to the Grange I’ve tasted on a couple of occasions. I reckon past a certain age, birthdays narrow into the things that matter: the closest people, engaging wine and food, and old stories we’ve all heard before — and will gladly recite again, with delighted ritual, next year.

0

How Good’s Grand Final Week?

|

Siren sounds.

Somehow, we’ve pinched it by two points. Somehow, from directly in front, Redleg Tristan Binder’s kick swung late, like a Terry Alderman outswinger. Moments later, ‘We’re From Tigerland’ blasts out around Adelaide Oval. Despite finishing second, we played and won like underdogs.

Somehow, we’re in the Grand Final.

*

Mum and Dad live in the Barossa. Mum barracks for Sturt. Dad and I are Tigers faithful. This Sunday night, someone’s having disappointment for dinner. Sitting on the veranda, I ring.

Dad says, ‘We’ll really miss Max Proud.’ Matty Snook was Dad’s perpetual favourite.

I say, ‘Gee, it’d be great if Hosie, McBean, and Reynolds all have a day out. It’s been a while.’ We dissect Jonty Scharenberg’s enormous last month.

*

The City-Bay Fun Run is also Sunday. Usually, it coincides with the preliminary final. I formerly ran the twelve kilometres, but now I do just the six from Kurralta Park in the interests of, well, my interests. I’ll again wear my 2023 premiership guernsey. It’s a magnificent running top and attracts quips from cheering onlookers lining the (mercifully downhill) Anzac Highway route.

‘Go, Tigers.’

‘Come on, the Bays.’

And from a tiny, white-haired lady, ‘Go, you good thing!’

*

We all dig out old scarves and ancient yellow and black caps this week. For me, I’ll enlist a premiership stubby holder to chaperone me through. Like a sommelier, I pick each up in turn, study it, and turn it gently in my hand. Which vintage to savour? The 2023? The 2024? I settle on the superbly aged 2019. I inhale and it smells like victory.

Grand final eve eve eve (Thursday) and we wander around Jetty Road to admire the decorations. Yellow and black streamers festooned in shop windows and across pub bars. Balloons bouncing on business facades. Tigers roaring.

Touring the holy trinity of B: Barb’s (Sew and Knits), the Broady pub, Butcher — SA Gourmet Meats (formerly Brian’s) I drink in their displays of communal celebration. Duck in the footy club for a brisk beer to appreciate the buzz — and under the darkening sky, scrutinise training and try to gather some heartening signs.

*

My wife, Claire, is a (mostly) lapsed Norwood fan from a big family of Redlegs supporters — her Dad introduced me to the idea of Port being labelled, ‘The Filth.’ Over beef curry one night she wonders aloud if it’s boring how Glenelg’s into a fifth grand final in seven years. I remind her of the conversation I once had at The Wheaty listening to her brother’s band: Don Morrison’s Raging Thirst.

It was with an old friend and mad Centrals fan. I said, ‘Your mob played in twelve consecutive grand finals, Smacka. Did it ever lose that excitement?’ Smacka instantly replied, laughing like a pirate, ‘No. Never!’

We’re with him.

*

When we win a grand final, my tradition is to swing by the Elephant and Castle (West Terrace) on the way home and buy a Coopers Sparkling Ale stubby (for whichever holder’s riding in the front seat). Here’s hoping that around 6pm Sunday I’m veering through the drive-through for a fourth beer.

I anticipate its zesty hoppiness.

*

Sunday afternoon drive into the CBD. Trust my secret (free) car park’s available. Kimba friends Mozz and Kathy will be with me, so I’ll ask them to not breathe a word of this clandestine location. Then, the thrumming anticipation when crossing the Torrens footbridge.

We’ll sit in the Ricciuto Stand. Looks like it’ll be showery. Max Proud is out — sadly his remarkable career is done — but with significant upset Sturt captain James Battersby has not so much walked out as run out to Oxford Terrace, wailing and blubbing. Both teams need to absorb these seismic events. Our last three finals victories have been by a combined eight points. They’ve been gripping and frantic. We’re underdogs, again.

And then, there’ll be that enlivening, hot-blooded moment when all the energy of the players and fans explodes.

The opening siren.

*all photos courtesy of the author

0

Sausage Roll Review: Live N Let Pie

|

Sitting outside this small bakery in the brisk and dazzling afternoon, I take in the view across to the Goolwa Shopping Centre. A key tenant is an especially attractive Foodland. Over-sized and ridiculous vehicles — ‘trucks’ in the US of A — crawl in and out of the car park.

I study my sausage roll. Mum used to make sausage rolls — with help from my sister, Jill and me — and the best job was to make indentations on the pastry with a fork. I was always amazed how these little rows of bumps were still there when they’d come out of the oven. It’s virtuous to preserve a sense of wonder, even when beholding freshly baked, meat-encased foodstuffs.

Glancing at the commercial real estate to the south, I note it boasts a Smoke Mart. I consider swinging by but then decide against buying Dad a novelty glass bong for Father’s Day (this Sunday).

My roll is enormous and I’m immediately suspicious. Munch. Look up again at the Smoke Mart. Munch again. Tasty and surprising. Look at sausage roll gizzards.

Capsicum. Oregano. Pepper. The new holy trinity of additives.

The bakery’s name is a pun on the theme song of Live and Let Die, the 1973 film and eighth in the Bond franchise, starring Roger Moore. Written and performed by Paul McCartney and Wings, there’s been five decades of controversy around this grammatical howler-

But in this ever-changing world in which we live in
Makes you give in and cry

Yes, (at least) one too many inclusions of in. Redundancy city. Maddening. Did this bloke write ‘Hey Jude?’ Covering the song, other artists have repaired the lyric. Macca himself is unsure. This, during an interview-

He starts to sing to himself: “In this ever changing world. . . . ‘ It’s funny. There’s too many ‘ins.’ I’m not sure. I’d have to have actually look. I don’t think about the lyric when I sing it. I think it’s ‘in which we’re living.’ Or it could be ‘in which we live in.’ And that’s kind of, sort of, wronger but cuter. That’s kind of interesting. ‘In which we live in.’ I think it’s ‘In which we’re living.’

As I continued my lunch, I thought about this a bit more. The shopping centre was still there. I wondered how many glass bongs had been sold in Smoke Mart since I sat down with my engorged sausage roll.

There’s a dog bowl out the front of the bakery. I like this. Should you feed a sausage roll to a sausage dog?

Mancunian types, Oasis, have reformed and are touring. I think the Gallaghers are funny in a scowling way. Clearly influenced by the Beatles, one finally met Paul McCartney and asked what he thought of this, he replied, ‘It were fookin’ great. How amazing to meet your idol! I mean, Wings are my favourite fookin’ band.’

My sausage roll was highly satisfactory, and I considered if the Gallaghers eat them. Macca’s a vegetarian so probably not. Did Bond ever throw one at a villain and fell him? Unsure, I drove off past the shopping centre thinking of grammar, dogs, and post-Beatles careers.

I needed to clear my head. Father’s Day would be here soon.

0

The (Claire Louise) Beverage Compliance Manual

|

Congratulations on your appointment as Claire Louise’s sommelier, barista, mixologist (oh) and general drinks help. Of course, it’s not really about beverages. It’s about knowing someone’s favourites, their rhythms, their fussy preferences — and loving them not in spite of them, but because of them

To assist you in your duties here’s a (brief) list of requirements.

1. Green tea. Taken regularly throughout the day. Any number between 4 and 7 cups. Teabags must undertake multiple tours of duty. Tea strength, as Goldilocks knows, should not be too weak nor too strong but just right.

    2. Coffee. Taken morning (one at breakfast) and afternoon (also one). As per tea should be moderate in strength. Sometimes, the afternoon one is purchased from a café or the evil Scottish corporation (drive through, not walk-in) and must be nice. As in a nice coffee. A chocolate muffin might accompany the later. Pro tip: Half the muffin is to be taken home and graciously offered to the husband. This, too, is nice.

    3. Water. Above all else this cannot be yukky. Filtered water that has fallen as gentle, nice rain in a country location is best. Do not buy in plastic bottles. Repeat. Do not buy in plastic bottles. Unless circumstances demand. These may include hikes in Europe across especially rocky terrain like the Cinque Terre.

    4. Orange juice. Taken in a small glass upon rising. Must be diluted (not overly) to allow for ease of consumption and to avoid citrus shock. NB- this is in stark contrast to #9.

    5. White wine. Must be cold but not too cold. 8 degrees Celsius seems ideal. Fill to (Rodney) line if using glass acquired* from pub. Do not add ice, regardless of outdoor temperature. But it’s nice to ask.

    6. Red wine. If using glass acquired* from pub fill to just below the Rodney line. No, I don’t know either. Add a single magic drop—no one really knows what it does, but it feels important.

    7. Sparkling white. Occasionally taken as first drink in pub. Only one glass and this is described as nice.

    8. Sparkling red. Despite early enthusiasm, this is now shunned. No loss.

    9. Brandy. In order to obtain your mandatory Cert IV, the Brandy unit must be passed at a minimum B level. Large, wide-mouthed tumbler. Substantial ice cube. Ice first to allow for spirit-cooling. How much brandy? Covering the brandy and ice, but not really, only conceptually. Then add new coke not pre-opened coke for it’ll be flat. Then again, the new coke will demonstrate a disappointing lack of fizz (see enshittification). Take care to not over-fill the tumbler to leave room for coke-topping to alleviate the intense brandy hit. To support you with this, a range of face-to-face and online groups are available such as the Brandy Assistance Division (BAD) who meet every month on the second Tuesday and 1 – 800 – BRANDYHELP has proved useful to some.

    10. Gin. Similar to but not quite the same as #9. Probably less spirit but with the addition of botanicals — though don’t let Miss overhear you saying that word, a dehydrated lemon wheel — don’t let Miss overhear you saying that either, mint et al.

    11. Cocktails. No genuine insight. Just make ‘em strong. Unless 10% ABV, don’t bovver.

    12. Pimm’s. (correct use of possessive apostrophe, thanks) See #11.

    13. Beer. The sole exclusion. Simple rule to remember.

    14. Hot chocolate. Taken mid-evening (mostly during the southern hemisphere winter) around 9pm. Sometimes as early as 8.30 and as late as 9.30. Never a giant mug’s worth. Regardless of the temperature, microwave for an additional 30 seconds (minimum) but do not allow to boil. May be accompanied (irregularly) by treats.

    15. Baileys et al. Taken occasionally, mostly on a Sunday. Often with an ice cube. Do not be alarmed when, days later, you find a glass with a barely-there centimetre of (diluted) milky beverage hidden away (in seeming shame) on a low fridge shelf. Sometimes poorly sealed with a sad square of cling wrap.

    I wish you well and trust you’ll enjoy this lively and exciting role.

    0

    To Alex, as your final day at school looms

    |

    Dearest Alex

    A summary of your recent achievements includes your continuing excellence in Drama and, just as impressively, in all of your Year 12 subjects; the inspiring trajectory and resilience you’ve shown in your work at Pasta A Go-Go; and the abundance of positive relationships you cultivate. All wonderful — and of these, I’m truly proud.

    But what I want to talk about lies deeper than the visible architecture of these accomplishments. I want to get to the heart of things.

    Although capable of admirable assertiveness — you can be feisty on occasion as I well know — there’s a gentleness in you that’s noble and principled. And this connects to kindness, which I believe is the most important quality a person can possess and practise. Here we think of The Dalai Lama, who as the head of Tibetan Buddhism, reminds us that, ‘kindness is my religion.’

    The first time I became aware of your gift for kindness — and how others saw it — was in Singapore. Do you remember that boy in your class called Mitt? I don’t think he was enrolled for long but his Mum told me more than once how very compassionate you were to him. You’d included him, looked out for him, and made easier the passage of his young, challenging life. I don’t know how any of this came to be but it gladdened me that your role in this appeared to be voluntary and offered unconditionally. I was delighted, and moved, to be the Dad of someone kind. I still am. Wherever they are, I expect his family still remembers you warmly.

    I also admire your appetite for experiences and your receptiveness towards possibility. For me, a chief joy in going somewhere with you and Max is in witnessing your engagement and the subsequent meaning you then collect from travelling. Agreeably curious, you’re inclined towards an open-hearted life.

    This was especially evident in Sydney on our coastal walk from Bondi to Coogee. Striding along, chatting with your brother, taking in that rugged sprawl of ocean and sky, clicking some photos — I loved being both a participant and witness to it. And how you do so in a good-natured way is, I hope, a predictor of a happy and fulfilling life.

    Another favourite memory: the Lake Lap. I loved how quickly you turned our late afternoon drives around Lake Bonney into a ritual — and how you not only relished the anticipation and the loop itself, but also the talk that followed. You’ve always had the rare ability to find joy and connection in life’s simple rhythms.

    Being a dad involves a lot of watching — scanning for all kinds of clues. Happily, in you, I’ve mostly seen encouraging ones.

    Last March, I made you a spontaneous offer: let’s go to Adelaide Writers’ Week to hear my favourite writer, Richard Ford, and then drive down to Moana — swim, eat at a café, and later, back in our cabin, watch a Bond film. Of course, you accepted with your usual, wholehearted enthusiasm. You bought into this with immediate unreservedness and listened to the literary discussion with patience and real interest. This passage from The Sportswriter — one of Ford’s best — speaks to perspective, hopefulness, and curiosity

    I read somewhere it is psychologically beneficial to stand near things greater and more powerful than you yourself, so as to dwarf yourself (and your piddlyass bothers) by comparison. To do so, the writer said, released the spirit from its everyday moorings, and accounted for why Montanans and Sherpas, who live near daunting mountains, aren’t much at complaining or nettlesome introspection. He was writing about better “uses” to be made of skyscrapers, and if you ask me the guy was right on the money. All alone now beside the humming train cars, I actually do feel my moorings slacken, and I will say it again, perhaps for the last time: there is mystery everywhere, even in a vulgar, urine-scented, suburban depot such as this. You have only to let yourself in for it. You can never know what’s coming next. Always there is the chance it will be — miraculous to say — something you want.  

    I was delighted — you’ve always been someone who brings me frequent delight — when unprovoked, you announced that you’d like to go to this year’s Adelaide Writers’ Week to hear one of our idols:  Shaun Micallef. I was impressed that you’d investigated the programme and this showed a healthy disposition towards a cultured life and learning. It also showed me that your curiosity now moves under its own steam.

    For a number of seasons watching Mad As Hell on Wednesday nights was our ritual. I loved how ready you were to laugh at it and appreciate its absurd satire. It was tremendous fun and I was thrilled by your quick sense of humour — a necessity as well as a reliable forecaster of future success. We’d roar at Sir Bobo Gargle (release the Kraken!), gasp at Draymella Burt, and laugh at the cigar-chomping Darius Horsham who’d always finish with, ‘Don’t be an economic girly-man.’ There was a quiet magic and symmetry in us meeting and obtaining autographs from both Ford and Micallef. I hope you and I can continue to attend Adelaide Writers’ Week.

    This letter is also meant to reflect on ambition and integrity — and I know you have an abundance of both. They’ll serve you well in this life which needs them. I remember your first day at school in Singapore — the morning heat rising, the skyscrapers shimmering — when you climbed aboard that little bus bound for Orchard Road and the great unknown. Your journey had begun.

    These brief years have vanished, your final school day looms, and you’re about to go into the world. In my quiet moments, I used to wonder about the future and how you would look, sound, and be as an adult. Now, suddenly, that future is here. You stand at its edge — optimistic, imaginative, kind. I know you’ll be all types of magnificent.

    Off you go.

    Love always,

    Dad

    2

    Kapunda, Monday: A Drive Through the Quiet

    |

    From the top of Gundry’s Hill, Kapunda lies soundlessly below — half-hidden in its jumbled valley.

    The topography gifts this view — and encourages a certain kind of reflection. I consider how some of the nearby towns such as Freeling, Nuriootpa, and Tanunda are largely flat — perhaps a little reserved in their landscape. Our steeper hills allowed for a testing upbringing of bike and billycart riding.

    Once, the surrounds of Gundry’s Hill were simply paddocks — rolling and empty. Now, a housing estate sprouts, improbably dense. There’s about twenty homes hounded in together — you’d struggle to swing a nine iron between them. However, unlike other locations further north, the population’s climbing.

    Driving about I’m gladdened by the early-week industry. People on foot and in vehicles are moving about collecting and depositing stuff, accomplishing transactions, making things happen.

    A blue sky presses down on Kapunda, dragged by an icy wind slashing at the trees and roofs. I remember days like these from my childhood. A friend once called it a lazy wind — ‘It doesn’t go around you, just straight through your torso.’ She was right.

    I’m curious — profoundly invested — in the high school’s rebuild after the 2022 fire. Eringa now looks familiar and is regaining much of its grandfatherly glory. It’s reclaiming its place as the town’s reassuring heart. The croquet lawn lies beneath a compact row of building site offices and the apron sloping from the grand front steps is crowded with what I hope are temporary structures. The old palm tree stands noble by the basketball court.  

    *

    Idling through the Dutton Park gates I take a slow lap around the sporting precinct, passing the clubrooms where Claire and I had our wedding reception. I then see the sleek bowls club, tennis and netball courts, and sadly becalmed trotting track — remembering long, dust-kicked laps in the heat of footy’s pre-season. The encircling gum trees bend in the crisp June gusts.

    I veer past the old Railway Hotel. Most of it’s intact behind some hopeful orange bunting. I wonder for a moment at what it could become. A motel? Café? Restaurant?  I then shake my head. It’s been decades since the pub fire and nothing’s happened.

    Across the road is the Railway Station. It’s now luxury accommodation but I remember Mum taking my sister Jill and I to collect our monthly parcel of State Library books and cassettes. There was always excitement in pulling open the brown paper wrapping to see what’d made the train trip up from North Terrace.

    I note mechanics garages all around town. A number have sprung up to service patiently waiting trucks and utes. Diesel motors have feelings, too. A boxing club’s in a shed across from Bald Hill.

    The North Kapunda pub is shut although the forlorn loss is yet to drape itself glumly over the veranda and windows. I hope it reopens but Kapunda has probably always been overserviced by pubs. Smiling at the thought of Saturdays in there during the 1980’s — the rowdy white smear of a couple dozen cricketers and I hear, ‘Where are you goin’? You owe me a beer for the Schooner School!’   

    In contrast, Puffa’s drive-through has been trading steadily since dawn and just over on Clare Road’s a flashing sign urging punters to drop by for morning coffee and afternoon delights. I love pushing through the front door into its cosy bar but before noon on a Monday’s not really the time. One day soon.

    Turning onto Hill Street I spy the sporting mural about which I’ve heard much. I’m carried back to the past and beam at Rocket Ellis, Paul O’Reilly, Davo, and other portraits. Macca — iconic teacher and sportsman — is also there and he once told me, ‘You’ve got it arse about. You hit a cricket ball in the air and a golf ball along the ground!’

    I smile at the adjacent mural more broadly acknowledging Kapunda’s story. Much-loved deli owners and revered citizens Eli, Brian, and Reg Rawady are at the rightful centre. I can still hear their distinctive voices, especially Reg’s bellowing baritone. A town that appropriately praises its people and history is surely a healthy place.

    At Litl Mo’s bakery, I park outside the former Eudunda Farmers store. Inside’s noisy with older folks concluding their morning tea. As I’m ordering most amble towards the door — leaving behind their coffee cups, chatter, and crumbs. A murmuring din bounces around. ‘See you next week, Bill. Enjoy your golf on Thursday!’ It’s an encouraging hub for the town and a bustling café.

    Deciding to eat on the balcony, I spot the dental clinic across the Main Street. It’s new although Dad later tells me it’s been open a while. After too many of Mo’s chocolate donuts, stride across the road to get your teeth fixed.

    My sausage roll is excellent. Scrutinising it after a bite or two, I’m thrilled to spot that neglected ingredient: carrot! The taste is delicate and flavoursome. It’s not massive — no need to compensate for tastelessness or oily pastry. It’s a treat.

    *

    Monday mornings teach you things in a country town. I’ve taken a tranquil drive through memory but have also glimpsed something of Kapunda’s boisterous and bright future. There’s movement beneath the quiet.

    0

    Five Things That Made My Saturday

    |

    Saturday afternoon and I’m home alone. Chores are in hand. Nothing on TV and the book I’m reading, the collected stories of cult American author, HP Lovecraft, is more medicinal than recreational, so it sits untouched by our bed.

    On Record Store Day (globally recognised on April 19th) I swung by Mr. V’s on Semaphore Road, and because one of the very best ways to invest half an hour is by listening to a Beatles’ album, I bought this. The music transports me to my childhood. It remains thrilling and urgent and while Paul is my favourite, I can understand why George Martin, their producer, commented that of all the great things he got to do with the Beatles, his absolute preference was mixing the vocals of John. As I type, the album’s on and it’s utterly joyous and innocent and compelling.

    I love our backyard. And the time of peak admiration is, of course, in those first minutes after it’s been mowed on an autumnal afternoon. The breeze is coaxing the trees and shrubs towards folksy dance and there’s bursts of birdsong. I’m in debt to Claire who, with her artistic eye, designed and brought our garden to painterly life. Later, I may sit out here with a quiet ale and admire the view.

    I purchased Glenelg Footy Club’s 2023 premiership jumper at Adelaide Oval during last year’s finals for tuppence and my appreciation of this simple item is twofold. Yes, the dual flags (nice win yesterday over Norwood in the Anzac Day grand final rematch with Lachie Hosie kicking eight goals) but the guernsey is my default running top. It’s frequently a conversation starter and when I’m on the beach in the morning a passerby will sometimes say, ‘Go Tigers’ as we puff by each other. I had it on this morning at the Patawalonga parkrun (my 110th, the 200th such local event and day number 729 of my current streak) and it was a fun 5k (24.49 which is decent for me). I’m grateful for footy and running.

    Dinner is slowly cooking in the slow cooker. Which is what the label promised, Mr Spock. It’s a beef casserole and I look forward to it. I assembled it late morning with the help of a Ball Park Music playlist. Can you remind me to throw in the beans around six o’clock? Thanks.

    It’s a bit of a narrative but Claire has been in receipt of red wine. Needing some for the aforementioned dinner, I opened a bottle of the 2005, McLaren Vale. This was done with nervousness for I anticipated it might have aged as well as the K-Pop song, Gangnam Style.

    How is it? It was a little cantankerous during those early minutes, but I commented to Claire that if I’d been trapped in a bottle for twenty years I would be too. I slopped a few generous glugs into the cooker and popping into the kitchen across the afternoon, both casserole and plonk are doing well.

    0

    Max. fifteen

    |

    Happy fifteenth birthday dear Max.

    It’s of significant joy to me that you’re teaching yourself the guitar. I love your discipline in playing each night and how fully you immerse yourself in it. You practice with patience and skill, clearly striving to be the best guitarist you can be.

    I really enjoy hearing Jeff Buckley’s ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ and then some chunky blues riffs filling up the house. Your insight into the technical aspects is mightily impressive too. Arpeggio. Capo. Chromatic. This shows me just how deeply invested you are.

    I’m completely confident that you’re transferring these skills and successes to other areas of your life. Music is of tremendous benefit to us when we listen, discuss, and in your case, actually make it too. You are living this positive behaviour, Max.

    I hoped that going to the Led Zeppelin documentary would be interesting but also inspirational. I hope it has been for you! I anticipate eagerly the next steps for you as a musician which might include forming a band with friends like Levi. I know you’re looking for a bassist and a singer. You could be the vocalist yourself! I would love to be at your first gig!

    What about the tremendous learning that’s come from your job? Pasta Go Go has been excellent for you and I can see multiple benefits regarding responsibility, teamwork, hard labour, managing your money, self-assurance, and thinking about your future. I also like that this is a connection between you and Alex.

    You also seem to have strong self-awareness about this and understand both your strengths and areas for improvement as an employee. Well done! I was especially impressed that you took a shift at Henley Beach when you didn’t know the venue or any of the other workers. I’m sure this made your boss rapt too. These are the kinds of choices that build character and confidence—ones that will serve you well in life.

    Like the guitar, this job experience is a positive indicator for your future as well. It makes me both proud of and excited for you.

    I said to you a few weeks ago how compared to last year you are now in many ways unrecognisable. Your growth and advancing maturity are hugely pleasing, and this is also evident at school. Attendance, application, and achievement are all vastly improved with B grades thus far in 2025 across all subjects!

    Wednesday mornings are a symbol of the new Max. Now, you get up at 7am, ride to the gym and then meet friends before school actually starts. You are harnessing the late start as an opportunity for fitness and fun. I’m delighted in your approach to this.

    It was well over a decade ago that you gave us the immortal line, ‘I’m cooler than a robot, older than the wolf.’ One of the highlights of our Sydney trip was the ferry ride across the harbour to Manly.  As we rode up and down the towering waves and you saw the small leisure craft bouncing around on the massive swell you remarked to Alex and me how you, ‘Hope on that boat they didn’t leave any eggs out on the bench.’

    Comedy gold.

    Happy fifteenth, Max.

    Love Dad

    0

    Mystery Pub: In Future Nursing Homes There Will Be No Jaydens

    |

    I message Claire with a brevity I hope conjures a sense of espionage. I enjoy these conspiratorial moments.

    5.37pm in the TAFE car park.

    We meet at precisely this time.

    Success! Claire thinks we’re walking. It’s only 750 metres or a ten-minute stroll on this warm afternoon.

    So, to continue the mystery, I decide to drive us.

    This month’s Mystery Pub is the Crafty Robot, a brewery on Grote Street with a sprawling beer garden and cavernous, concrete interior. Come early evening we’ll all be in another interior of a more cosy nature.

    Making her (overdue) Mystery Pub debut, my sister Jill breezes through the gate, and we assemble about an outside table.

    Claire volunteers to procure the drinks. Returning, she clasps a white wine, a (0.0%) beer for Jill, and a Blonde Ale (4.5%) for the only non-blonde in our party, me. With sips and nods and brief individual analysis, all are deemed satisfactory.

    We chat and eat a shared dinner of deep-dish margherita pizza which has recently transitioned from being a (dysfunctional) quiche. There’s also a plate of indeterminate potato stuff. Inside a Quiz Night rumbles into animated life. Peering through the glass I see the MC moving about with insistent evangelism. I imagine him asking, ‘On which Beatles’ album does Ringo not play a cowbell?’

    We speak of the Fringe and our aspirations. Claire enquires.  ‘What are you doing, Jill?’

    ‘Got a few shows booked. 27 Club (about the musicians like Hendrix and Cobain who all shuffled off at this tender age). One in Stepney too.’

    Claire recalls last Saturday’s play in the library. ‘Prometheus was hard work. Youth theatre. After a few minutes I was waiting for it to end.’

    I agree. ‘It asked the audience to work too hard.’

    Conversation then moves to the immediate for we’re going to the Fringe’s premiere comedy club, the Rhino Room and specifically its subterranean venue, Hell’s Kitchen.

    The fifty-first edition of Mystery Pub concludes. We’ve had a splendid hour.

    *

    Until Claire was appointed as the Auslan interpreter for Brett Blake’s stand-up show we’d not heard of him. Ambling in, Jill and I have no real expectations but present ourselves with open minds.  

    Hell’s Kitchen is tiny, the size of a modest suburban lounge room. It’s close and hot down there (as befits a venue called Hell) and the stage is only elevated a few inches. It does the trick. Claire’s on a chair to the left of Brett.

    You might know BB from his recent appearance in a betting ad with Shaq O’Neill. He clicks up a photo in which he’s standing next to the seven-foot basketballer and is about half his height. Upon shaking his hand he describes, ‘My hand got lost in his palm and I didn’t touch one of his fingers.’ This is all context for his main story about being arrested when he was seventeen.

    As the show progressed, I formed a view. Blake’s a brilliant writer and storyteller: observant, skilled with language, assured.

    His routine’s about growing up in an outer suburb of Perth (tough) and his homelife (loving), school life (challenging for all) and escapades at large (hilarious and harrowing).

    I roared like a drain (what does this actually mean?) across the sixty minutes. The highlight was BB talking about cars and youth and motoring perils. Mid-anecdote he said,

    ‘Jayden? Jayden? Silence. No reply. The nursing home was quiet.’

    He continued. ‘This is because in the future there’ll be no Jaydens in nursing homes. Why? Because they’ll all have met their untimely ends. Every Jayden will perish by accident in a shitty old Commodore. No Jayden will live to fifty.’

    The room erupts. The truth in it—absurd, yet undeniable—hits us all and there’s bellowing aplenty.

    Later, I wonder how many ways the mandatory forearm tattoo can be spelled.

    Jaden. Jaydon. Jaiden. Jaidyn. Jadyn. Jaidan. Jaydin. Jadin. Jaedon. Jaedyn. Jaydyn. Jeyden. Jadon.

    What’s your favourite?

    0

    Alex. seventeen.

    |

    The White Stripes are blasting from the stereo with drums pounding and guitar screaming.

    There you are in your car, revving the engine, also disturbing the neighbourhood. Your casual confidence in the driver’s seat is both reassuring and mildly terrifying. It’s Tuesday evening, and you’ve been cleaning the interior: scraping off stubborn gunk, spraying the console, wiping the trim.

    Suddenly, you’re a motorist and a car owner.

    How did this happen? And why did we get here so quickly? Childhood, for the helplessly watching parent, is a succession of joyous and heartbreaking moments so fleeting, so enormous—that most of us are forever exhilarated and exhausted.

    Regardless of these thoughts, your 2012 Ford Festiva will soon carry you away into your newly made world. And this is how it should be.

    On Wednesday, you and Max are side by side at Pastagogo— or as I prefer to write it, in full Vintage Vegas style: Pasta-A-Go-Go. It’s been hugely positive for you both and you’re learning about hard work, the value of money (not quite there yet), teamwork, flexibility, and much more that will be useful across, let’s say, the next fifty years! In the meantime, go gently with the gnocchi.

    I’ve a profoundly moving image of you on the back lawn, in the beanbag. It’s a summer’s morning during the last holidays and you’re reading a book. Not any book but the 500+ page magnus opus that is Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. Reading celebrated literature is hard. But the cognitive struggle is rewarding and has benefits in many different ways. It might take you a while but persevere, finish it and you’ll look back with an enduring sense of achievement.

    Even more important than cars, pasta, and weighty novels are relationships. In these I see you growing in skill, self-awareness, and respect (mostly). Relationships are the beginning and ending of all the things in this life that are of value. I notice you learning and applying this to friends, work, love, and family. It makes me proud.

    So, dear Alex, on your seventeenth birthday, I’m grateful for this moment, wistful about your fading childhood, and hugely excited for your future. Enjoy your last birthday as a secondary schooler.

    This time in 2026 we’ll be looking back on Year 12. This will be a deeply significant event for you and I’m confident you’ll shape it into a remarkable one, bursting with learning, memories and life-changers.

    Love Dad