Category Archives: family

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The Chateau Tanunda neon sign in St. James Station

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Alex, Max, and I were staying by Hyde Park so strode past twice daily going to and from Circular Quay.

The St James Station on Elizabeth Street is part of Sydney’s underground system. It’s my boys first visit to the Harbour City and I’ve not been there in over a decade. My previous time was a day trip for an (unsuccessful) interview.

It grabbed me instantly. As art, it’s beautiful and transportive to multiple personal destinations. It’s heritage listed (1938) and draws upon an Art Deco aesthetic. The pale blue of the Chateau Tanunda lettering and the Vintage Vegas orange tone of The Brandy of Distinction juxtaposed with the (formerly) white tiling. The neon colours are joyous and sentimental.

The station itself is mimicry of London’s Underground.

Staring at it from the edge of Hyde Park, I wondered about the naivete. Although dating from just prior to WW2, there’s an innocence at play. Over time do even the darkest of eras become prone to unsophistication? With the painterly mise en scène does it also evoke the often-quaint cinematography of Wes Anderson?

I thought about my own (brief) brandy drinking career. After cricket, and a meal in the Wudinna Club, my captain, Peter ‘Honey’ Boylan would often say, ‘Beer’s no good after a steak. I get too bloated. Buy you a brandy.’ I didn’t especially love nor hate it, but I’ve not had one since.

I do love the persistence of analogue clocks in railway stations despite the difficulties of moving parts, manually adjusting the time, and keeping all of them accurate. I read that railway station clocks, ‘provide optimal time awareness to patrons.’ The sign and the clock are pleasingly synchronous.

With the Barossa adjacent to my hometown of Kapunda, my parochial self was also activated. It makes me proud that Tanunda’s conspicuous in Sydney and I feel a swell of nostalgia for growing up. Is it true that the older many of us become, the more magical appears our childhood? This neon display in Sydney certainly had this effect.

Of course none of this mattered to my boys who were impatient to get over to Luna Park. I tore myself away, but the image stayed with me.

In this bejewelled alpha city with curving harbour views, this is a gently magical interior vista.

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Carrickalinga, Abbey Road, and the Visionary Pub Schnitzel

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During our annual Carrickalinga getaway I took some conscripts to parkrun at Myponga Reservoir, and I think we all enjoyed our ensemble endeavour. With water, stern hills, and forest it’s a fetching but searching physical test. Leonard rambled over the finish line and Claire and Trish then came down the final hill, legs whizzing not unlike the Tasmanian devil (Taz) in the Looney Tunes cartoons. It was a succession of warm moments across a brisk morning.

*

Cindy Lee is a Canadian band who’s come to recent global attention with their remarkable album Diamond Jubilee. It’s not on Spotify or vinyl but available as a single two-hour track on YouTube. Hypnotic and haunting, it evokes 1960’s girl groups and also features jangly guitars bouncing across its thirty-two songs. It put me in mind of buskers you might happen upon somewhere off-beat like Boise, Idaho.

*

Alain de Botton is an author I love to re-visit and this year he’s been in frequent demand. With Claire and I in an unbroken, anticipatory conversation about overseas trips, I was keen to purchase a book of his I’d previously appreciated. On level two of Adelaide’s Myer Centre is the most excellent Page and Turner, a sprawling second-hand bookstore and from here I bought The Art of Travel. The exquisitely observed prose possesses a deep, almost meditative fluency, and early in this work, he depicts the wonder of flight:

This morning the plane was over the Malay Peninsula, a phrase in which there lingers the smells of guava and sandalwood. And now, a few metres above the earth which it has avoided for so long, the plane appears motionless, its nose raised upwards, seeming to pause before its sixteen rear wheels meet the tarmac with a blast of smoke that makes manifest its speed and weight.

*

The glow from Glenelg’s SANFL victory continues. Given the ultimate margin of five points and with only one score in the final seven minutes, the tension was sustained at stratospheric levels. The sole behind came from Tiger forward Lachie Hosie hitting the post; itself among our game’s most theatrical events and a unique scoring outcome among world sports. Contrastingly, in rugby, soccer, and American football if a goal post is brushed, the ball’s destination is all that counts: inside the goal is good and deflected away means nothing. The notion of the behind as a reward for goal-kicking inaccuracy seems distinctly Australian and effectively announces, ‘That’s not a goal, but good effort. Here, have a point!’

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Amidst the Carrickalinga escape, we spent a stout hour aboard the Yankalilla pub beer garden. This was an instructive text with the conversation moving from Asian and European travel to domestic matters. Returning to the holiday home, we’re welcomed by an array of aromatic curries which had been patiently preparing themselves in that most spiritually comforting of appliances: the slow cooker.

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One Hand Clapping is a new Paul McCartney documentary I saw one Sunday with Max and his mate Ethan. It includes songs recorded in the Abbey Road studios for Band on the Run and we witness him playing the guitar, the bass, the piano, and singing in his honeyed, jubilant tenor. He appears ignorant of his own seemingly easy genius and captivating enthusiasm, and I was reminded of this: when his former band split, McCartney was devastated for more than anybody on the adoring planet, he loved the Beatles.

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Alex and his school friend Judd camped in the Adelaide Hills to make a found-footage horror film for which Alex wrote an 8,000-word script. A chief challenge over the three days would be keeping phones and video cameras charged at their powerless camp site. I overheard Alex explaining how to solve this problem they would, ‘go to the pub for a schnitzel and plug in their devices there.’ First words, first steps, first day at school. Add to the accumulation of milestones: first pub schnitzel.

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Meet Me at the Malls Balls: Life and Phones

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We talk about it every now and then. How, before mobile phones we’d make an arrangement with somebody and just have to stick to it.

‘Meet me at the Malls Balls at noon.’

Done.

‘See you tonight at the pub.’

Sorted.

Technology now allows us to break these agreements. Some might say mobile phones encourage rudeness. Or maybe they’ve made us more responsive to life’s twitchy demands. Is constant communication healthy? The social landscape has shifted.

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‘I’ll meet you at the finish line,’ I said to Claire.

‘About 9,’ she confirmed.

It was the morning of the City Bay Fun Run. Same as the year before, we’d a plan. Claire would be easy to spot in her pink jacket. I also liked to think that there’d be some mysterious, undeniable connection, a marital telepathy that would bring us together, despite the swarm of 25,000 runners and their innumerable hangers-on.

Exhausted, ruddy of cheek, and hands on hips, I was funnelled along Colley Terrace, peering about, trying to spot the pink jacket.

Where was she? Maybe over by the roundabout. No, she wasn’t.

Continuing to the race village in Wigley Reserve, I hunted among the marquees and food trucks and bibbed joggers. No luck. Back to the finish line. Same. No pink jacket.

What to do? That’s it! I’d borrow a stranger’s phone to ring Claire.

5AA had a MC at the music stage, and away he honked. He was pleased with himself and pleased with his voice. ‘Well done to all the participants. It’s been a great morning. Up soon we’ve got the Flaming Sambuccas who are going to play for you…’

I wondered if he might help me, but he barely drew breath, so I walked off.

A safety of blue-uniformed police officers (nice collective noun) stood at a display, chatting among themselves. Approaching an officer I said, ‘Hello there. Hoping you can help me…’

Now, we don’t usually need to remember phone numbers. Who knows anybody’s number, beyond their own? It’s a redundant skill. How would I call her?

On the friendly officer’s phone, I pressed the buttons. How had I memorised the number?

Claire’s the holder of the Dan Murphy’s membership and if I pop in late Saturday morning (as I sometimes like to do) the cashier will say, ‘Do you have a membership?’ to which I reply, ‘Yes, I do’ and then I recite Claire’s phone number.

I’ve now heard myself say this dozens of times; just like my Grade 5 class learnt by heart, ‘Mulga Bill’s Bicycle.’ There’s an everyday intimacy in it and it’s a little prayer. And what better place for this oration than Dan’s?

Shortly after, heading towards me I saw a pink jacket.

*

Later Sunday I was at Adelaide Oval, while Claire attended day two of a conference at the convention centre on North Terrace.

The Tigers and Dogs were in a close one and I moved restlessly around the ground trying inanely to escape the foghorn chant. ‘U Dogs! U Dogs!’

Just after half time Claire called to say that her phone was about to die. What to do? We’d planned to head home together. Ordinarily, we’d sort this much later.

So, again we made an arrangement. Two hours before hand! Then followed two hours during which we had no contact! I watched the footy and Claire did conference things at the conference.

It seemed pioneering and almost dangerous. But there we were in this psychological uncertainty, both adrift, both untethered. Miraculously, we just went about our afternoons. It was thrilling and magical.

We’d decided on a time and place to meet and after a gap of a few hours, we were going to have to honour it. Just like it was 1987 and we were meeting at the Malls Balls before going to Brashs to buy an Uncanny X-Men CD.

Leaving the footy a few minutes early, with Glenelg off to the grand final, I made my way over the sunlit footbridge, up through the majestic railway station, across North Terrace and into the Strathmore Hotel.

Just as planned, Claire was there. Sitting on a stool, smiling, with an espresso martini in hand.

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To Alex and Max, on our Bali Holiday

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Hello there Alex and Max

I hope you enjoyed your trip to Bali. I learnt much about the island but more importantly the three of us and found it to be a holiday of fun and spirited, positive conversation.

That you both went on your first flight overseas by yourselves is of significance. You did well, especially given Max’s mid-flight mishap, and I was proud and relieved when you both strode up the airport’s departure corridor, looking relaxed.

Is there anything as exhilarating as that first crisp, new morning in a different country? Friday dawned in Kuta, and our hotel is a few minutes from the beach. We go along Poppy’s Lane past all the clothing stores and eateries and then explore the Beachwalk Shopping Centre. Pausing to check out Hershey’s and Starbucks, we have lunch at Avera where Max has margarita pizza and Alex has the first of many plates of Mee Goreng. I appreciate how curious and excited you are. There’s constant chatter. We spot the Bali Bomb Memorial and talk about this.

You both barter for the first time and show a confident, courteous grasp of how to do this. When I mention that it’s enjoyable for us but of great importance for the locals, you nod. It’s another step in becoming a global citizen. We visit the Jimmy Fooking Hendrix shop. With his well-practised routine, he makes us all laugh.

You subscribing with such enthusiasm to our Blue Lagoon trip was superb. We could’ve remained in Kuta in our established routines, but you expressed a keenness to venture beyond and I like this too. Snorkeling in the warm ocean on that Monday, it was terrific to watch you swimming above the coral with clown fish. We even saw some garfish! Sadly, no mantra rays. A wonderful morning!

I loved late afternoons on Kuta Beach when after a day of investigation, we’d sit on beanbags at the Fiki Fiki Bar. Young coconuts for you two and a (rare) beer for me. We’d discuss ways to manage the ceaseless stream of people selling things. How about Max’s pedicure? Big toes only (budget restraints). Alex hired a board and went surfing. These were entertaining moments in which the wider world was embraced by you both.

Our final day was invested at the fabled Waterbom Park. Despite my hesitations it was a fantastic afternoon, and I loved our shared rides on the Python and the Twin Racers. Barreling down those terrifying, often blackened tubes and being at the mercy of ruthless gravity, I found immense joy in doing this with you.

This conclusion to our time in Bali was deep in profound meanings about family and sharp mindfulness for me. I felt a delightful sense that it and our entire trip had been most triumphant, executed with eagerness and open-heartedness, and gave me a glimpse of your blossoming futures.

Love, Dad

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Three Balinese Beers

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Bintang

Rented daily at the Fiki Fiki Bar on the beach at Kuta, this was a functional and fun beer. Alex, Max, and I bombed onto the beanbags and the boys each had a (young) coconut as the sun submerged into the Indian Ocean. Somedays, Alex then surfed for an hour, while Max and I yakked and repelled the unrelenting torrent of often comical hawkers. There were cultural and interpersonal lessons for all. On successive days one fellow tried to sell us (purportedly) temporary tattoos featuring enriching life advice such as, ’Talk shit, get hit’ and ‘You wish, jellyfish.’ However, removed from a convivial context Bintang can be a dull, flavourless slog. It’s occasionally the sole option at local restaurants but let’s not be overly critical for a beer is a beer is a beer, as almost sung by a faceless German techno band in 1985.

Diablo IPA

An India Pale Ale in Indonesia? The homographic repetition of ‘Ind’ could be a good sign. And it is. On Saturday after yoga Claire investigated a Bintang supermarket (no relationship with the aforementioned beer) and bought herself a few treats (including a dress ring) before returning with a new beer for me to investigate. It was a restorative change and after dark, I scrutinised it as we collapsed in and out of the villa’s sparkling water. Gang of Youths soared into the sultry Ubud air. Invigoratingly zesty and aromatic with citrus, it’s well-suited to the tropics and at 4.9% comes with not inconsiderable clout (hence the name Diablo, even if a little overstated). I might try to get some in Glenelg.

Prost

Clean and crisp, this golden lager is amicable, and you know the name is German for ‘cheers.’ In Ubud, I’d collect a pair at the Ratna supermarket for poolside refreshment however there was early distress during our stay as I couldn’t find the villa’s bottle opener. So, despite my brash promises of cultivated behaviour, I had to knock the top off with a decidedly bogan methodology (no teeth were involved). Ultimately, this beer displays only minor charisma despite its slogan proclaiming the philosophically knotty and largely indefensible, ‘Good people drink good beer.’ I also read a suggestion that Prost has, ‘notes of corn and hay’ but remain unsure as I didn’t share my ale with any English-speaking local livestock.

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We’re Submerged in Sunlight

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After the insistent, whipping squalls and sullen clouds, our fretful phone calls and the unending wiping down of the rows of plastic chairs, we’re submerged in sunlight. It streams through our hair as we amble back down the aisle beneath the soft serenity.

I love how we’re laughing at someone off-stage. It’s a mystery starring an unseen, comedic protagonist. Is Lukey saying something brash? Or is JB making a quirky quip? Can you remember? Will we ever know?

I’m in the middle of a guffaw and you’re on the edge of chuckling. It’s an affirmation, the reassurance of our world’s axis spinning as it should, a sunny instant in an impeccable day.

Kapunda High, our joyous, kindly school, is in the background watching approvingly, nodding in wise appreciation having stood witness to our teenage lives and then from both near and afar, our adulthood. A mere twelve months after this special occasion the beloved building, Eringa, was devoured by those diabolical flames and we impatiently await its reconstruction.

See the fluttering flower petals caught delicately in your curled, tumbling hair, as it cascades onto your dress: impossibly pretty, bold and deeply considered, the turquoise an exquisite, arresting hue.

With hands clasped, we’re hitched triumphantly, at ease and brightly expectant, stepping into our afternoon.

2

last swim

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Life is boredom then fear.

Or at least according to the poet Philip Larkin. Fear lurks just beyond the horizon’s curve with the crawling truth that eventually everything will succumb. I’m certain I’ve played my final game of footy and probably cricket too. These are aggregated losses, joining the ever-lengthening string of diminutive deaths.

Instead, I now run thirty kilometres a week, partly driven by knowing of people whose knees or hips have called time on this. Every morning (lately under the cape of darkness) because I can, I stumble out onto the tarmac and trot beachward. I often wonder if I’m running towards a destination or from a spectre. The disquieting thought lingers: what if this is all halted? One day, of course, it will.

It’s easy to spot the opening to a sequence. A baby’s first steps, a first ever goal in a footy match, or a first love. These are commencements we can celebrate.

I love the first swim of the summer as the world opens up when the lengthy, lethargic days stretch out like a fluttering ribbon. While not endless, we sometimes pretend to ourselves that they might be.

For some pursuits, the last in a sequence can also be simple to note. Grand finals, New Year’s Eve, our last day on holiday. But for other activities, how do we reconcile not knowing which is the last? I like to think there’ll often be one more.

There’s always next year, until there isn’t, so I appreciate our beach. When I say swimming, not actual freestyle or breaststroke or anything as deliberate and exhausting as this. Just standing about in the greenish-blue shallows.

Late March and under the slanting sun, towelling off on Glenelg North’s crunchy sand, I promise myself with the next temperature spike I’ll be back down in the ocean. And then abruptly, summer vanishes and exquisite as it is, autumn arrives but swimming’s done. Some years, that anticipated next time just doesn’t come and I look back with minor regret.

To squeeze these moments like a ripe orange, I plunge in. Claire tip-toes along the sand and inches her way out, grimacing with every step. Waist-deep, we chat and look around us. My eyes dart about for stingrays and fins. I gaze north towards the West Beach Sailing Club and then south at the Marina. Flinging myself into a marching wave the salty stuff blasts by as, eyes open, I scan the corrugated floor.

Upright with water cascading off me, it’s a phantasmagoric instant and once more the beach, that narrow, ever-pulsing connector of ocean and earth, nudges me into gratitude and tranquility.

So, is adult life governed by fear? Only if we choose.

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Max. fourteen.

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Happy 14th Birthday!

Smiling, I regularly think of the note you’d leave on the fridge whiteboard – a small yet significant gesture that speaks volumes about your character. Your ability to infuse humour into everyday life, coupled with your thoughtful nature is always a delight! The simple declaration became more than just a message; it’s a testament to your wit, your creativity, and your unique perspective on the world.

the cordial is pre-made

Watching you blossom in drama has been a joy. I like you telling me about the acting challenges you’ve been set and how these are progressing. I’m excited to see you on stage later this year, playing a character and entertaining the audience. Keep embracing those opportunities to express yourself and develop your skills.

And let’s not forget about basketball – a sport in which you truly have ability. Your talent on the court is undeniable, but what sets you apart is your understanding of teamwork and being able to bring others into the game. Of special interest is your ability to navigate both victories and defeats with grace. Remember, it’s not just about winning games; it’s about the lessons learned along the way, the friendships forged, and the growth that comes with every season.

Regrets are mostly not about the things we’ve done but rather the things we didn’t do. Given this, I believe you should keep playing basketball. You can do it!

In June I’m keen for you, Alex, and I to explore Bali together. Investigating new cultures, tasting exotic foods, and experiencing different landscapes will broaden our horizons. I hope during your life you’ll keep seeking out those adventures for it’s through travel that we learn about the world and ourselves.

Your imagination is limitless, and your ability to craft immortal expressions never fails to make me laugh. Hold onto that youthful spirit and sense of wonder, for it’s what makes you extraordinary. Lastly, I want to reminisce about that moment in a Singaporean swimming pool when you made that legendary declaration to me that you were

cooler than a robot, older than the wolf

As you embark on another year of new experiences, new challenges, and new triumphs, always remember how loved and cherished you are. You have a heart of gold, a mind full of dreams, and a spirit that’s destined to soar. Happy birthday, dearest Max.

Love Dad

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Three imaginary beers with my favourite author, Richard Ford

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The premise of Independence Day, Richard Ford’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, is simple. Frank Bascombe takes his sixteen-year-old son Paul on a road trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, which ends badly. In Be Mine, the final instalment of the series, the narrator and his dying middle-aged son embark upon a last road trip, this time to Mt. Rushmore.

My son Alex and I are going on a short road trip to Moana, but our first stop is Writers’ Week as I want him to again witness the merits of a life with conversations and stories. He’s largely agreeable so with little persuasive effort, we’re here to listen to Richard Ford speak about his writing and probably, the characters of Frank and Paul.

While that’s fiction and our experiences are (aspirationally) real, the parallels seem both captivating and unsettling. The thought comes to me again: I’ve delayed a road trip with my sixteen-year-old son to hear a novelist enlarge upon a father and son on two heart-breaking road trips. I trust I’m not tempting any type of cosmic irony to drape its wicked self over this bonding weekend away.

Lunchtime underneath the canopy in the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden. That Alex is here with an open mind and open heart, and willing to indulge his dad strikes me as a scarce act of teenaged generosity. I vow to afterwards buy him a coke for the drive. I spot the Footy Almanac’s editor-in-chief Harmsy and we’ve a quick chat.

Richard Ford is interviewed for about forty minutes, and it’s engrossing. Profoundly considered and droll and pleasingly, approaching stern when provoked, he makes references to Virginia Woolf (he’s a fan) and Samuel Beckett (he’s not a fan). I record the discussion on my phone, and Claire (elsewhere unavoidably) and I will listen to it one night soon over a Shiraz as if it’s an unedited podcast.

I rarely carry my backpack but do today just in case there’s a book signing and in it’s my beloved copy of The Sportswriter. I’ve not anticipated an autograph since Joel Garner at an Angaston Oval cricket clinic in 1975. He was the biggest human I (or likely the Barossa) had ever seen. Following our applause, the interviewer invites us to form a queue.

Rushing politely, I find myself about a dozen deep in the line. Alex stands with me. He’s a Beatles fan (for which I’m also thankful) and I say, ‘You know that chatting with this writer will be my meeting McCartney moment?’ He nods.

Introducing ourselves, we shake hands. He’s sitting at a table. Eighty-years-old and greyhound fit, Ford has hypnotically blue eyes (matching his socks) reminiscent of the late Bond but alive actor, Daniel Craig. I’ve hazily rehearsed what I say, and the opportunity doesn’t get to me as I imagined it might.   

I begin, ‘I’ve read all the Bascombe novels three times except for the last. But I will. They’ve made such a huge impact upon me, and I’ve happily accepted that I’ll pretty much re-read them constantly from here on in.’

Desperately gushing? Probably.

Richard (we’ve progressed to first names) replies with an affirming chortle, ‘Well, some books can hang around.’

I tell him the story of a Saturday night last autumn just prior to the publication of his final Bascombe novel. I explain, ‘I’d read a preview of the book and was telling my wife Claire about it over a Shiraz (now a theme, I know). And I mentioned the central tragedy of the father and son relationship and the son dying. I then realised that all this represented a loss for me too as a reader, so I shed a few tears.’

Richard continued peering at me fixedly with what I imagine’s a blend of deeply practised writerly attention and unshakeable southern manners. Acknowledging my revelations, he nods.

I’m now in full Sunday confessional mode, for I need this man to know how important his creations are to me. Perhaps I’m epiphanic, emblematically at large in New Jersey, like Frank Bascombe himself. ‘It’s the only time I’ve cried at a book before I’ve read it, such is the power of your storytelling, and the remarkable insights. Thank you for this.’

As he signs the title page, I feel a sense of gifted camaraderie. The waiting line is lengthy, and so I conclude, ‘I’m urging my wife to read your books when we retire. I talk about them so much.’

Richard laughs, ‘You’ll hand her a list!’

I also cackle, ‘I think so.’

He thanks me for coming and again we shake hands. The adage cautions against meeting your heroes but encountering this literary giant has been joyous. Alex and I stroll through the garden’s dappled light and up sundrenched King William Street.

2

Mystery and Murder in Moana

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Hurtling past O’Halloran Hill on the Southern Expressway and Alex slides in a Steely Dan CD. Although he views this dad technology with bemusement, he’s also a devotee of nostalgia, and I’m thrilled he can meld irony and joy. Their jazzy and bewitching song, ‘Aja’ fills the cabin, and he mentions, ‘Manny’s dad loves this. He reckons it’s goated.’ I say, ‘It’s great. When I was at uni, I played the cassette in my old Holden going to and from Kapunda.’

Earlier at Writers’ Week we heard my favourite ever novelist, Richard Ford. Alex came to this excursion (I see no other teenagers in the garden) knowing it’s significant to me and this is heartening. Listening to the author of The Sportswriter he made connections to his Year 11 English course, and these were deliberated over the day. We returned to Ford’s point that characters are not people, but instruments of language and I’m convinced this insight puts Alex in front of his ATAR competition, should this still exist, and not a few literature teachers.

When Alex turned thirteen, we spent a night in Hahndorf and then last year on his equivalent birthday Max and I stayed in Aldinga. Claire suggested acknowledging these rites of passage and for this idea I’m most grateful. Each is an occasion to pause and talk and contribute to our future selves in novel surrounds.

Yielding again to my paternal voice I declare, ‘I think we should swim between the flags.’ Alex nods. Late afternoon at Moana beach, it’s chilly in the water but splashing about we promptly acclimatise. Irregular sets of waves march in from the icy Southern Ocean and some hoist themselves up as green walls, while others crumple sullenly about us, all slovenly foam and disagreeability. This burst of activity provides a relaxing physical context on which to hang this sparkling day. We catch a couple each and are rushed shoreward like straw.

For dinner it’s the esplanade’s Deep Blue Café. We’re sat by the windows and the sun slants in, all gilded and promising. It’s a cheerful, assured place with table service and over pepperoni pizza and a fat burger talk moves to Alex’s favourite Beatle, George Harrison. While I’m a McCartney man I see the appeal of the band’s youngest Liverpudlian with his quiet genius and affable ways. I say, ‘How amazing that he was only twenty-six when the Beatles finished.’ Musically, Alex’s unquenchable and sees no generation gaps as his preferences range from Kanye to Miles to 1970’s Japanese avant-garde. Hopefully, this cultural inquisitiveness is a predictor of a hearty, fulfilling life.

Back in our dune-side cabin we speak of the soundtrack for the film Alex’s making and how esteemed directors Wes Anderson and Quentin Tarantino use wistful music in their art. He plays ‘Miserlou’ by Dick Dale, made famous in the Pulp Fiction opening credits. Intrigued by Bob Dylan, he’s shortlisted several of his tunes for their project and asks, ‘Do you think Paul Kelly is the Australian Bob Dylan?’ It’s an essential, probing question.

We then turn on the tele. As he’s about forty years too young for Escape to the Country, I surrender the remote.A Bond film. Skyfall. During a break, I show Alex a clip from The Trip to Spain during which over an entree of scallops Coogan and Brydon battle with their respective Roger Moore impersonations. He laughs at, ‘Come, come, Mr. Bond’ and reckons the next movie introduces Jane Bond.

Before 007 defeats the cyberterrorist in Scotland we hit our cots. Today’s gone well and there’s been lovely moments and also, I hope, fruitful investment.

2

On the Glenelg Surf Club, Vampire Weekend, and Roast Beef

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Surf Club

‘Just as we were amazed to look out at the sea on the Cinque Terre, people must come here and think the same. The view is beautiful,’ offered Claire.

‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I replied instantly, if a little ungenerously.

About 5.30pm on Friday, we’d somehow snaffled a table on the balcony at the Glenelg Surf Club. The waters of Gulf St. Vincent were flat and dazzling and postcardy. To our south the squat jetty swarmed with folks and kids, leaping into the drink, from the pylons. I hoped some had on their best swimming jeans.

Having established a theme, Claire pursued it with relaxed tenacity. ‘If there were tourists staying in the city, I reckon they’d really enjoy it in here. Don’t you think?’

I love a surf club, too. They’re proudly local and chances are your beer will be served by a young, often uncertain, clubbie getting up a few volunteer hours. The prices are decent, the grub’s often excellent and you know your coin’s doing communal good.

We then bought (unsuccessful) tickets in the meat raffle and this was also a petite joy.

To celebrate this tremendous fortune, we had a bag of chips (not my idea, I confess) and then discussed how our British friends are probably wise to call these crisps to differentiate them from their direct-from-the-deep-fryer brethren. It would save us the frequent indignity of this conversation:

                Shall we get some chips?

                Sure. Hot chips or cold chips?

                Cold.

                Why don’t we call them crisps in Australia?

                Yeah, like the Poms. Would make life easier.

                Dunno.

*

Vampire Weekend

After five years, one of my favourite bands dropped (nobody releases music anymore) two new songs, ‘Capricorn’ and ‘Gen-X Cops.’ The former is wonderfully atmospheric and reminiscent of their acclaimed 2013 album Modern Vampires of the City with its introspective lyrics about the past and our fragile hopes. Musically, there’s a lovely piano solo, string accompaniment, and a fetching melody that echoes some of their finest moments on tracks such as ‘Step’ and my desert island certainty, ‘Hannah Hunt.’

Claire and I saw Vampire Weekend at Melbourne’s Forum Theatre as part of their Father of the Bride tour in January 2020. It was magnificent with 27 songs played across nearly three hours. About four songs in that night the stage lost power twice and we feared our night would be unhappily early, but the faceless electricians got the voltage happening and the show went on. On the third attempt, they got through the delightfully named, ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.’

For me their music is literate and fun and smart. It connects to Paul Simon’s Graceland in style and execution. When it’s out in April, just after Easter, I’ll be all over the new album, Only God Was Above Us.

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Roast Beef

Although it’s February we decided to have a Saturday roast. It’d been months since our last, probably in winter and so we enlisted the appropriately named Beefmaster barbeque and utilized the indirect method (does sound like an unsatisfactory form of contraception).

Is there a more comforting sound than that of a hunk of beef spitting and sizzling in the pan?

Food often lacks an accompanying musical score, so this is always a welcome domesticated commotion. I find the challenge is to just leave it alone and not lift the lid too frequently. I treat the meat like a kind of culinary Schrodinger’s Cat, wanting to peer at it constantly as if it’s slow art, thus lengthening maddeningly, the cooking time. Preparing a roast is best done as a duet with Claire being the gently guiding Dolly to my slightly dazed and doddery Kenny.

It was affirming ye olde fayre with the roasted cauliflower (is it really the poor cousin of broccoli; methinks not) and Belgium’s finest cabbage derivative, brussel sprouts, both emerging as unlikely stars and receiving a sitting/ standing ovation from us.

At 6.37pm on the patio attending to the soothing symphony coming from under the rangehood and nursing a sparkling ale (me) and gin (Claire) all was (briefly) right in our tiny beachy nook.

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Alex. sixteen.

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Dear Alex

Happy 16th birthday! This year is the sweet spot between childhood and adulthood. It’s like being stuck in limbo, but in a good way. I wanted to take a moment to share some thoughts, advice, and, of course, celebrate the wonderful long horse person you are.

Life at sixteen is like a canvas waiting to be painted with vibrant colors, and from what I’ve seen, your life could be an exquisite artwork. Your circle of friends, the rich and fun beachside experiences – these are the moments that will shape your memories and relationships for years to come. Cherish them for they are the building blocks of a life well-lived.

I’m mightily impressed by your growing appreciation for the arts, particularly music, drama, and film. George Harrison and Revolver hold a special place in your heart, and I’m glad you’ve inherited a taste for timeless classics. The complexities of Scorsese, the boldness of Tarantino, and the brilliance of Kubrick – these auteurs have influenced your cinematic preferences. And let’s not forget The Big Lebowski, a film that has finally found its way into your heart, adding a touch of humor to your cinematic palette. Mark it zero!

As you continue to improve as a reader and a writer, remember that these skills will be your not-so-secret weapons, especially in the worlds of film, theatre, and literature that you hold so dear. Keep nurturing your creative spirit and be bold in exploring new genres and authors.

Embarking on the next two years, remember that they won’t define your entire life, but do present wonderful opportunities to make exciting things happen. School will be as rewarding as you decide to make it, and your fondest hobby or subject could very well evolve into a fulfilling career. Take the time to investigate your passions and discover what truly brings you joy.

Financial independence is an important aspect of adulthood. So, aim to secure and maintain a job to not only learn about managing money but to also gain valuable insights into responsibility and accountability. There are skills to learn!

Our trip to Moana will be a bonding experience, and I look forward to this and similar escapes together and with Max too. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about the conversations and shared moments of discovery.

Never forget kindness. This is the value promoted by the Dalai Lama, and I reckon he’d know. In a world that can sometimes be challenging, kindness remains the unblinking beacon of light, guiding us eternally. Choose kindness for yourself and others.

Alex, you are growing into an amazing young man, and I am excited to see what lies ahead for you. Happy birthday! May this year bring you joy, growth, and unforgettable experiences.

PS- remember to place all cans and bottles in the recycling box. I don’t need to tell you why!

Love, Dad

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Photos both exquisite and ridiculous

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This cassette came my way when I was twelve. A Christmas gift from Mum and Dad. It made a deep impact upon me, and I’d wanted it for ages. Like a head-banded DK Lillee bowling, or Rick Davies playing footy for Sturt in the ’76 grand final, the pure and impressionable skill with which the gawky blokes of LRB harmonised made me quite starstruck. I imagine even then I was monstrously tone-deaf.

On my little tape player, I had this on repeat and at volume. Hearing it now on vinyl it rushes me back to 1978. Of course, I had no idea what the songs were about other than vague adult notions of love. As Claire noted, the vocal highlight is the dense opening line to ‘Reminiscing’ with their internal rhyme of ‘late’ and ‘gate’ and the exciting urgency. We’ve eighteen syllables following a trochaic (stressed-unstressed) rhythm-

Friday night it was late I was walking you home we got down to the gate
And I was dreaming of the night
Would it turn out right?

I’ve much gratitude for this gift from my parents and the effortlessly transportive nature of the music. Yes, it’s probably a bit soulless and as smooth as cat poo but it’s forever connected to my childhood.

Among the torrent of music that comes from Alex’s room is jazz and noise rock and the Beatles. I was surprised and secretly thrilled when I recently heard the slick tones of LRB and their deathless harmonies.

I took this during the official ceremony prior to the recent Test at Adelaide Oval. It’s Claire about to perform as the Auslan interpreter for Cricket Australia. I love these moments when the private and the public collide although I generally keep my thoughts in my head.

I was proud and thrilled and would like to have prodded the bucket-hatted bloke next to me in the Members’ and said, “How good is this? She’s very talented, oh, and by the way, I’m her husband.’ What a unique skillset. Other than for a post-match ‘kick and catch’ I’ve not trod on this hallowed turf so well done, Claire!

Utterly impractical and ridiculous. The car or the owner? Good question. I bought it in early 1991. Sadly, the odometer stopped working when it’d done 297,000-something and shortly after I sold it. I imagine, it then went, in an automotive sense, to God. I expect most of these are now in wrecking yards or serving as artificial reefs, home to snapper and sharks.

Commencing a long trip to or from Kimba, I’d often slide in Nevermind by Nirvana and spin the volume knob hard right. It was fun to pilot. I loved the sunroof, but it was noisy on the highway.

Still, it amused me and bemused my friends. I’ve now recovered although I’ll never surrender and own a station wagon, not even a Wagon Queen Family Truckster like the Griswolds on Vacation.

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Mystery Pub: bung fritz, beanbags and Botched

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Mystery Pub was on Sunday afternoon at the Marion Hotel, but it’s mostly been at the working week’s end. There are cultural and atmospheric contrasts between the timeslots with Friday about dusty boots and yelling men in orange set among menacing urgency.

However, Sunday’s often a day for family functions in the pub and we chat with a former colleague attending his niece’s farewell. She’s eighteen and going to Sydney to study dance.

Prior to this monthly excursion Claire and I made our annual investigation of the Brighton Sculptures. Along the esplanade is a row of wrought and welded stuff, made from glass, timber, and metals. We’re gently prodded by the creations, and each comes with a description penned by the artist. One read:

The artwork embodies an environmental consciousness, highlighting the interplay between human and more-than-human temporalities within the material world

I am concerned that this asks too much of corrugated iron.

Prior to this we visited the Glenelg Air-Raid shelter. As with many of these in Adelaide it’s situated by an oval. We learned that during WW2 the ovals were a mustering point. If required people would then have been bussed out of the city and on such dark trips were permitted only one type of sandwich: cheese or egg. It was instructively sombre.

Prior to that I watched San Francisco beat Green Bay in the NFL Divisional Playoffs. While I’m a Denver Broncos supporter I’ve affection for the 49ers as they were great when I was a kid. I recall the stentorian commentator Pat Summerall and his iconic, ‘Montana……Rice……touchdown.’

Prior to this I ran six kilometres to the Adelaide Sailing club and back. It’s hosting the World Regatta Championship and I was disappointed to not spot bobbing on the briny the Caddyshack tub, Flying Wasp, or the yacht, Unsinkable 2.

*

Saturday evening was balmy, so we plonked our beanbags on the back lawn for The Ringer podcast on the terrific film, The Big Chill. Sprawling over 120 minutes it included astute dialogue on the opening scenes of Alex’s funeral and wake. This sequence, soundtracked by the Rolling Stones’ classic, ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ is my favourite song use in a movie.

Earlier we slipped into the cinema for The Holdovers, and I liked the protagonist’s line, ‘life’s like a hen-house ladder: shitty and short.’

Earlier still, one of the year’s smallgoods highlights was the annual running of the (time-honoured) Bung Fritz Cup at Gawler in the uproarious timeslot of 1.02pm. The numbers were: 1, 6, 2. But you probably knew this.

Yet even earlier around the Patawalonga I undertook my weekly parkrun (#51) and thought I did well although the official clock indicated a muddling amble.

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The Marion Hotel’s heart is The Garden. It features a large tree, and we do like a beer garden built around a tree. There are a few pubs which claim this although I was dismayed that the Broady’s beloved frangipani tree was felled recently due to ill-health (the tree, not the publican). These charming surrounds reminded me of Australian Crawl’s, ‘Beautiful People’ with its lyric, ‘the garden’s full of furniture, the house is full of plants.’

On a wall were two bedsheet-sized TV screens and surprisingly both were dark. In a pub when was the last time you saw this? However, undistinguished music was bleating rowdily, and I finally guessed it was Keith Urban’s Greatest Hit, on repeat.

In a Mystery Pub first, we had the dinner in The Garden with a veggie patch bowl for Claire and a beef schnitzel for me. Our flashing buzzer nagged us to collect our meals immediately and slightly aggrieved, I wondered if it was akin to self-checkout at a supermarket. Frowning, I vowed to next time put through Lady Finger bananas as loose carrots.

Furthermore, will future bartenders only be apparitions? Will our pub experience devolve into humming dispensers squirting one’s beverage like a dystopian bovine teat? Swipe your details and stick a cup under an unappetising nozzle?

Is this already a thing in Japanese train stations?

After a weekend of cultural immersion, we then raced home for Botched.

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Sausage Roll Review: Tanunda Bakery and Café – Howzat

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It’s the week of the Adelaide Test and a vital plank in my psychological preparation is a drive up to the Barossa to see Mum and Dad.

Late morning, I steer along Gomersal Road which seems pot-hole free. Not before time. I’m listening to Classic FM as lots of New Year resolution lists recommend this as a calming strategy. Rachmaninov does seem more soothing than Rammstein.

Arriving at my parents’ home we chat about the following: cricket, Dad’s bowls, my park running, cricket, recent holidays, my wife Claire’s work, immediate family, our 101-year-old neighbour, cricket, extended family, and the weather including how the cool summer has meant Claire and I have done limited beach swimming.

At long last, we get to the topic of cricket.

Prior to this I luncheoned at the Tanunda Bakery and Café as part of my endless investigation into our state’s sausage roll situation. I planned to write contemporary sausage roll situation but it’s difficult to eat historical (without frozen foodstuffs from decades past) and future samples.

Inside the busy bakery someone asked cautiously if there was a queue. Another replied rather unaccommodatingly that there wasn’t, and furthermore it was entirely the responsibility of each customer to establish their spot in the order and guarantee its integrity. This seemed especially burdensome for a Monday, so I decided instead to join the apparent and flawless queue adjacent to the counter. Like many queues over the previous millennium, it worked rather well.

There were no unpleasant incidents during those 87 seconds I waited to make my purchase.

I ventured outside to the shady patio. It was inviting with tables and chairs, and being the Barossa, a wooden wine barrel. For my continued safety and mystical comfort, I chose to eat by the wine barrel.

Just like most of the Tanunda footballers I encountered during my youth as a Kapunda Bomber, my sausage roll was compact and appeared competent.

A second glance was disappointing for the baked good looked a little diminished although I’m prepared to concede this might be a function of the contemporary consumer experience in which we expect everything to be excessively large including our cars, our beverages and of course, our schnitzels.

My first bite. Innocuous. Waiting for the delicious arrival of delicate spice and accompanying waft of pepper. It didn’t happen or perhaps is hugely delayed, giving me a minor zing tomorrow. The pastry was also only adequate.

Now we all know well that a sausage roll can be a cylindrical joy, a triumphant midday flourish. Either way the model in front of me, in the heart of the Barossa, was dissatisfactory.

Like Ted Mulry, I then jumped in my car and drove to Mum and Dad’s. There was cricket to chat about.

My sausage roll was purposeful rather than flavoursome. Admittedly, I had significant expectations, but these were mostly not met.

Three cricket bats out of five.