Category Archives: love

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As Childhood Slipped Away

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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.

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The Light Around Dad’s 82nd Birthday

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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.

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Mystery Pub: HYMN to Her

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‘I like jazz in this context,’ says Claire. ‘It’s creating a nice atmosphere in here.’ I nod. At HYMN, an upstairs bar on Grenfell Street, a smoky sax slithers above a mid-tempo, New York swagger. I try to pick the artist. Coltrane? Monk? I’m an enthusiast but hold no deep expertise in this genre. I wonder how well music catches the mood of a place. A Beatles song works almost anywhere, anytime — such is their irresistible charm and sparkle. Jazz can be petulant and angular like a prickly dinner guest. But not here, not now. The sax is warmly insulating.

The owner explains how his bar is a former law firm and glancing about the peaceful loft, we take in the stained glass and holy interplay of light and shadow. Distinctive church motifs surround us. All traces of legal smugness and imposing suits are gone. Two or three lone men are dotted about. They sip neat spirits, luxuriate at their tables, and then drift downstairs. A half-full pub never works — it’s better when these are swarming with parties or empty like a desolate street. Both present as tantalisingly intimate. Meanwhile, merchandise is available and beyond shirts and caps are HYMN branded guitar plectrums. Christmas is now sorted.

Claire and I then have a nostalgic, encompassing conversation about a photo we know well. It has become an emblem; though neither of us appear in it, it evokes a moment of almost unbearable intensity. With Pale Ale in hand, I was suddenly misty with grateful memory. Having just returned from a trip to Bali, we were planning a Mediterranean tour next autumn. However, as becomes increasingly clear, life unfolds mostly in our everyday and simple spaces. This is true late on an afternoon when we’re between things: work and home for me, and for Claire an intermission before an interpreting job at Town Hall.

Travelling together in this gilded cocoon, I hope it is another enriched scene we’ll fold into our mutual narrative. In a Friday twilight, HYMN feels tenderly triumphant.

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Country Roads, Take Me Home — Again and Again

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Sedans feel selfish in Bali. The local brothers picked Claire and me up at the Taksu Sanur Motel in their boxy people mover. Here, there are only two types of vehicles: scooters — cheap and nimble — and people movers that carry half a dozen or more.

Heading north up the east coast the brothers queued up some music on a phone. We immediately recognised the twangy guitars of a beloved American performer. The brothers sang along in broken but affectionate ways. You know the words. Join in!

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River

Claire and I suppressed our giggles, barely. What better way to engage with Western culture and to learn English (should you wish) than courtesy of the clear-eyed melodies of John Denver’s ‘Country Roads, Take Me Home.’ I do think it’s a terrific song about the love for home with its introspective, soaring bridge that often makes me misty and want to jump in my car and hurtle up to Kapunda.

I hear her voice, in the morning hour she calls me
Radio reminds me of my home far away
Driving down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday

Lunchtime on Monday and the traffic’s dense but moving as we slowly weave our way to Sideman, east of Ubud. The song finishes and I wonder what will be up next. To our aural surprise we have: ‘Country Roads, Take Me Home’ by John Denver. Except it’s not JD on repeat but the tune’s been pinched by some gormless baritone, likely with a too large hat draped on his too large, empty (Texan) bonce.

It’s a wonderful song, of course, but nothing should be played twice in a row. The second listening is always diminished, an entirely foreseeable disappointment. Still, for us in the back seat, it’s an intercultural education. Finally, the Appalachian Mountains have come to south-east Bali.

Tragedy! One of the brothers — he has pretty good English due to his stint on a cruise ship — was poking about in the console and glovebox when he timidly announced, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I left my phone at the hotel so we’ll have to go back.’

Rather than spend an unnecessary hour in the car, Claire and I are deposited at Sanur Harbour. Strolling around, we’re constantly asked if we’d like a taxi. It’s like being questioned in a bakery if you’d like sauce on your sausage roll. I want to scream, ‘Yes, I’m so unspeakably dim that I need a stranger to alert me to my condiment requirements. Of course! Sauce. Thank you kindly retail assistant.’

Sometime later the brothers return in the people mover, all phones now present. We’re hot so it’s a relief to be in the cool of the car. Again, we steer north. The brothers both fumble with their phones — driving’s no impediment to this — and for our shared, involuntary pleasure, they recommence the tunes.

We then hear that familiar guitar picking — in the key of A minor — and the warm vocals of one Henry John Deutschendorf Jr whom you may know better as John Denver.

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River

Three times in under an hour — and we were still stranded in Sanur, vehicularly and musically. Claire and I squeeze each other’s hand in silent, intimate acknowledgement. We’ll hear it twice more before we leave — drifting from waterfalls and restaurants, the song now a comical motif, an improbable Asian companion.

Listening to the song in the future, I’ll remember those lovely brothers and that captive drive along the coast of a small Indonesian island.

Music really does surround our tiny, receptive world.

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Before Breakfast, You

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I wondered about you as I ran along the Balinese boardwalk. I imagined you in our room — fixing your hair, brushing your teeth, tidying up a little like Ann in The Famous Five. I hoped we’d cross paths. I liked the quiet intimacy of that thought.

The context of the moment matters; it offered a hopeful glimpse of our future. Up early, somewhere tropical. Taking our exercise — as you sagely remarked while coming down the stairs, ‘Even on holidays, we probably need to stay active.’

Running along the boardwalk, after peering in at Pier Eight — we’d have a late-afternoon drink there during our stay — I felt pleased about the morning ahead. Swim. Reading. Breakfast. You.

I had on my Glenelg Footy Club 2024 premiership guernsey. Running in it’s great. It’s lightweight and often a conversation-starter. Just by a beach hotel an older chap and his wife hollered across at me, ‘Is that a Glenelg top?’ I was lost so welcomed a break. ‘Yes,’ I panted, stopping with them by the boom-gate. He continued, ‘I’m from Mundulla, near Bordertown. They’re the Tigers, too.’ We swapped footy histories and off I trudged through south Sanur.

If Claire and I were to meet, I hoped it would be along what I’ve now dubbed the Police Path — no cars, few scooters, only the odd dog ambling along with no real morning agenda and the tourist police office right there. I sensed you were close, just as you had sensed me that summer afternoon, watching the world’s slowest cricket match.

Blue denim shirt. Sunglasses. A singular freely offered smile. Coming around the corner, in the dappled morning sunlight, there you were.

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The (Claire Louise) Beverage Compliance Manual

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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.

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    Almost, Us

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    A silver tray with vintage glasses of sherry greeted us by the door. It looked like something quietly borrowed from Antiques Roadshow.

    Setting the afternoon’s genteel, English drawing-room tone, if Claire had on a hoop dress and I’d just doffed a top hat, it’d be a period drama.

    We were at the Stirling Community Theatre for Sunday’s matinee of Almost, Maine.

    Stirling is the most Hertfordshire-like of the Adelaide Hills’ villages. Outside was July-cold and drizzling. Clasping our sherry vials, we stole past the soft scarves and murmurs. I quite enjoy ‘Sherry’ by Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons but don’t have the fortification for fortifieds. Claire may have had both snifters. I prefer not to ask.

    We claimed a spot by the orange flame of the fireplace. Its considerate warmth was another unanticipated bonus. It was thrilling. I could almost smell a Chesterfield and I enjoyed the quiet happiness.

    Making our way into the theatre proper, Claire collected a black blanket from a wooden box. Although it was thin and provided symbolic rather than physical comfort, draping it over our laps was a terrific addition to this pastoral excursion. The anonymous, attentive care was uplifting.

    At the door was a kindly couple checking tickets. I showed the woman my phone. By her side was a spritely, smiling usher in a black suit. He also had on a bowtie.

    Our theatre visit was now more Downton Abbey than off-Broadway. Sherry. Fire. Blanket. It made an affirming triptych. My inner octogenarian — he’ll be among us before we know it— was preternaturally ecstatic.

    At intermission we returned to the fireplace. I nibbled my half of the carrot cake we’d bought (reluctantly) at the Stirling Bakery.

    On the adjacent wall was a poster promoting love — the play’s key theme — and in the modern spirit of interactivity we were invited to share our thoughts on this — via heart-shaped sticky notes to be affixed to the poster.

    Claire resumed her seat for the second act while I confirmed and displayed my suggestion.

    How was the play?

    It was engaging and the young cast was enthusiastic if uneven. Eight interwoven stories, each set on the same winter’s night, as the Northern Lights shimmered over a small town near the Canadian border. As a concept Almost, Maine gave us much to consider. Love and loss, hope and pain, a missing shoe, and magic realism. It’s the most performed play in American schools this millennium, should this be any metric.

    Claire deposited our blanket back into its box and went to the love poster. ‘Where’s your message? I can’t see your writing.’ I pointed to an unholy scrawl.  

    Starring George Clooney in what I think is his best role, The Descendants, is a blackly comedic drama set in Hawaii. Clooney’s character is Matt King who, in the second act, delivers a monologue to his wife. Among other poignant and despairing things, he observes that the function of a marriage should be

    to make easier the passage of each other’s life.

    Claire took a photo of the sticky note. She then rubbed my arm.

    With the lights on and wipers ticking, we descended to Adelaide’s spacious plain. We prodded gently at the play, and our past. It really is a lovely thing — to have shared so many almosts.

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    A Gentle Ambush

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    Strolling back from lunch on Port Road’s broad and grassy median-strip, a black car approached. Familiar shape and model — but surely not. It glided closer. I zoomed in on the numberplate.

    In our small city of 1.4 million, few things thrill like stumbling upon you.

    Our car. You.

    Walking along, in no physical or professional hurry, I’d been wondering about your morning — and somehow, as if conjured, there you were. Like a kid at a parade, I waved wildly.

    You pulled over. Right lane. Outraging the fretful and the furious. Horns shouted. Arguing with you, with each other, with their contrary planets. You didn’t care. I love that you don’t care.

    I leapt in. We shoved your stuff from the seat — there’s always things — and up and down the Port Road you zipped.

    A side street.

    You park (no honking this time). A rapid exchange. Mornings, work, lunch, the day ahead. A speedy farewell. A kiss.

    I love how secretive forces conspire to let these little joys find me. Small gifts from the day itself. Delightful interruptions from the commonplace.

    Resuming our travel: you vehicular; me perambulatory. You go to the hospital at Woodville for an interpreting job. I return to editing the curriculum.

    It’d been a gentle ambush.

    Taking in the sky’s blue ceiling, I find myself quietly grateful — as though a prayer had arrived before I even knew I’d said one.

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    What the Photo Knows

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    Whether it’s a repeated holiday, yearly lunch, or the lame recurring joke I inflict upon Claire, I reckon tradition offers psychological warmth. Do you have your own conventions that you repeat over and over again?

    My rituals unfold like this: the deliberate or accidental start, the adhering — however long it endures — and the anticipation for next time, commencing immediately once the event’s done.

    I’ve known Claire since we were thirteen so with much to consider and scribble, head to Port Elliot for a few days to immerse myself. At the beginning of my now biannual writing retreat, I conduct an opening ceremony. This is done by arranging a tableau of items on the townhouse deck’s wooden bench, overlooking Knights Beach. As is our modern way I then take and share a photo, mostly for self-amusement. Like the youngsters.

    So, what’s in the photo?

    I include my Kapunda Cricket Club hat; the Greg Chappell version (c.1982). It’s my oldest piece of apparel and a life-long companion. It represents youthful frivolity and fellowship. Having been on my head during many summers, I hope it inspires a sunny, grateful tone in my writing. Or at least not a golden duck.

    It’s well-worn—perhaps even an heirloom. It’s certainly a talisman from another era—something with personal gravy gravity. Just this week, my eldest, Alex, wore my other beloved cricket cap (Kimba CC) while playing an old, broken-down PE teacher in his Year 12 drama performance. It was a star! Upstaged everyone. So maybe I can pass various cricket items down through the generations. Surely, there are more miserable inheritances. I reckon they’d prefer this to a house.

    We can all learn lots from a hat.

    Also in the photo is Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter. Paired with the cricket memorabilia, it suggests a longing for past versions of masculinity—or the shifting seasons of life. The Sportswriter is the first in a series of five stories I’ve read three times across this past decade. It’s about loss, introspection and hope.

    As I’m striving for enlightened forms of myself, I want both hat and novel, as personal texts, to be illuminating. To work like flares in the fog.

    This writing retreat is for contemplative isolation —not loneliness. I generally seek no company — not even during my late-afternoon pub visits — but see the time as an opportunity to swim in words. Not drowning, waving. My sentences take shape from memory and its attendant considerations. Being beside the glittering, pounding Southern Ocean and adrift in language and reflection is spiritual.

    The horizon line on the glass balustrade is enlightening. Did Frank Lloyd Wright once say this? Though it sits near the top third of the photo’s frame, it suggests both elevation and humility—the viewer just above the sea, but not grandly removed from it. I hope this projects gratitude for the occasion and the painterly environment, and encourages the idea that these are combining together, in serene concert.

    This tableau proposes that through the laptop and novel, I’m straddling the border between writer and reader. Additionally, I’m fluctuating between labour and leisure and ultimately, thought and the expression of it. My retreat is simultaneously and indistinguishably all of these.

    It’s my idea of fun.

    Lastly, this is a portrait of myself in retreat— not from life, but toward something. Maybe a particular reckoning with age, or self, or meaning. The animating idea is that we harvest the past to better command our present.

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    Five Things That Made My Saturday

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    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.

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    Where the Light Found Us

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    You wear an elegant, off-the-shoulder sequined dress—sparkling, even in monochrome. In your left hand is a small bouquet of white roses. Your right hand rests gently on mine.

    We are gazing at each other with affection, both smiling softly—it’s a candid and heartfelt demonstration of connection.

    The setting is outdoors, beside Kapunda’s duck pond. In the background gum trees contemplate while the island’s soft, weeping branches add to the serene, almost dreamlike atmosphere. Late afternoon light filtering through bathes everything in tranquil reverence.

    As kids, how many times had you and I walked, rode or driven here? It was always evocative but I dared not imagine it as a setting for such a photograph.

    You exude warmth, elegance, and joy. Even in the black-and-white image, you are catching the autumnal light. Your hair is styled in soft waves, loosely pinned back with a natural, graceful finish that frames your face with an artful, effortless beauty. As you look up at me, beside you, you have a luminous smile and your expression is one of affection and contentment. Your face, as well-known to me as my own thoughts, is wholly familiar but somehow brand-new.

    With this, my world is remade.

    Your posture—relaxed, leaning slightly into our embrace—conveys ease and deep correlation to this instant. The sparkle of the dress, paired with the tenderness in your eyes, contributes an almost cinematic glow. There’s an attractive balance of glamour and surrender in your appearance, making the scene striking.

    We had a timeless and profound minute—the photo’s composition accentuates love and natural beauty.

    Your face is turned slightly toward me, and you’re looking with a warm, affectionate smile. There’s a calm confidence in your gaze—you look truly content and immersed. You are muse and memory, myth and moment.

    For this moment, my life had been a faltering, often uncertain rehearsal.

    On this day of orchestration and meticulous planning and staging it is an improvised tableau. A reverential moment at a childhood location. Late afternoon you and I drove past and were drawn to this poignant place. An intermezzo between the ceremony and the reception. It is a place that catches the magical narrative of our wedding.

    And here, in this quiet place, is where the light found us.

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    7:22 am, Friday – Glenelg North Beach

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    Jogging along the ribbon of blonde sand, he was grateful for the gulf and majestic sky.

    There were only vague, soundless characters scattered on the coast.

    In the softened distance a lone figure was smudged on the scenery. He could make out her muted pink dress. She was at the water’s edge, moving north towards West Beach.

    Arriving at her side he slowed and bent towards her. Then he reached for the closest shoulder. He kissed her cheek—exquisite, familiar—and was moved in a profound, unspoken way.

    She murmured that the morning suited her, that she should come here more often.

    He reminded her of the unseasonal winter’s day, a few years’ back, when they did this before work.

    She smiled, a kind nod to their memory.

    Yes, he said, August—just before the Josh Pyke concert.

    He returned to his jog and stretched away from her. The water receded some more with the moon’s fading gravity.

    It was the briefest of exchanges, a sliver of chat. But it was connective and affectionate. As he pushed away, she offered tender encouragement after him, before laughing too.

    Squaring his shoulders to make erect his carriage, he stared towards the usual turn-around point. It was just beyond a jutting ramp, bordered with rocks.

    With the delighted sun vaulting into the incalculable blue, he’d soon return and ease to a walk alongside her.

    Again, he would kiss her cheek.

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    Slender Elegance

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    With immense kindness, you bought me a Coopers Glass.

    While you were out, you drifted into an Op Shop and thought of me—a simple transaction yet one abundant with love. You bought this because as we sat outside, you knew I’d be able to pour a beer into it, and for me it would enrich that place.

    And you know so well how I love place—especially, our veranda.

    It’s a bid that arrived without complication or messy context and simply says, ‘I love you and hope this brings you joy.’ It’s a declaration of devotion and consideration. In a world often filled with loud gestures and grand expressions, its slender elegance and humility hold appeal.

    With its fetching, silent curves, it doesn’t beg for attention. The glass is efficient but wants no boisterous recognition. Free of ostentation, there’re no unnecessary embellishments but it catches my eye with its allure, every time.

    Quietly, it holds profound enchantment—a meaningful investment of thought and care.

    Out back, on the table, with Neil Diamond as the heartening soundtrack, the fading light dances with the garden—a scene both painterly and idyllic. The dark will shortly rise from the lawn. It transcends, a poetic expression of intimacy.

    It’s all you.

    2

    Things I Like (2024)

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    A Cornish pasty

    The view from the 1st tee-block at Victor Harbor Golf Club

    A band at The Wheaty on a Sunday afternoon

    Buying (another) Glenelg Footy Club premiership stubby holder

    Four Larks and a Wren, Tuesday mornings on Three D Radio (with Stu)

    The joyful approach to cricket shown by Kapunda’s (own) Darcie Brown

    On ‘Play Me’ when Neil Diamond sings, ‘Songs you sang to me/Songs you brang to me’

    Meeting The Sportswriter author, Richard Ford, at Adelaide Writer’s Week

    The Malcolm Blight statue at Adelaide Oval

    The choral singing on ‘Mary Boone’ by Vampire Weekend

    Spending a Saturday afternoon hour with a book on the couch during our annual Carrickalinga weekend

    That Claire’s favourite cricketer remains Bruce ‘Roo’ Yardley

    The character of Marge Gunderson in Fargo

    The CF Orr Stakes at Caufield

    Ubud’s best rustic eatery, Whole Egg

    My fourteen-year-old-son Max learning ‘Hotel California’ on the guitar

    A swim-up bar

    A Sunday lunch with Mum and Dad and the family

    Climbing Mount Remarkable and once descended, the North Star pub

    ‘Nightswimming’ by REM

    Lighting the fire, late afternoon in a holiday cottage

    The comedic energy, and crowd participation during the Torrens parkrun briefing

    Retrospective gratitude for summer’s final swim

    Local poet and former colleague, John Malone, once writing that jetties are umbilical cords attaching us to better versions of ourselves

    The annual November lunch with Kapunda mates at Greenock Brewers (tomorrow)

    Flopping into the beanbag, occasionally

    Buying the vinyl of So Much For The City by The Thrills: immaculate, sunny West Coast sounds by Dubliners

    The official ceremony prior to the Adelaide Test when I glance up at the big screen and see Claire interpreting (Auslan)

    Our Toyota RAV 4 approaching 500,000 kilometres

    A Sparkling Ale longneck at 5.30pm on a Sunday

    Hiking from Waterfall Gully to the Mount Lofty Summit (and back down)

    The ‘Mr. Blue Sky’ episode of Soul Music on BBC Radio 4

    On my annual writing retreat, that first beer in Port Elliot’s Royal Family pub, at 5pm on Wednesday

    My sixteen-year-old son Alex beating me at chess

    On Fisk, Ray Gruber’s knitwear

    The Vintage Vegas aesthetic of The Peninsula Hotel

    Looking down across Kapunda from Gundry’s Hill

    Stanley Tucci doing Stanley Tucci things in Stanley Tucci ways

    Paul Kelly’s ‘Deeper Water’ and its soaring, extraordinary commonplaceness

    Spending an hour in the West Terrace cemetery

    A late afternoon bowl of hot chips

    Da Vinci’s Last Supper was painted on a refectory wall

    Glenelg Oval’s new scoreboard

    Passing a velodrome during the Milan parkrun

    ‘The Owl is flying high, frightening to the eye/The Rattler is nearby, Cool is on the fly/Danger is his business’

    Locating Claire among the throng following the City Bay Fun Run

    Karen Carpenter’s contralto singing voice

    Watching the waves with Alex and Max at the Fiki Fiki Bar on Kuta Beach

    Wondering if the Robinsons, Dr. Smith, Major Don West, and the robot were Lost in Space upon the Jupiter 2, what happened to Jupiter (1)?

    The psychedelic, 60’s girl groups mood of Cindy Lee’s Diamond Jubilee, my album of the year

    Rediscovering Riesling in the summer of 24/25

    Steve Gadd’s drum solo on Steely Dan’s eight-minute pinnacle, ‘Aja’

    Sticky date pudding

    How our bottlebrush is at peak annual flowering every Derby Day

    VVS Laxman

    Imagining a recent phone conversation between Mick and Keith

    Spying a chainsaw in the middle aisle of Aldi

    The 1982 comedy horror film, Creepshow, directed by George A. Romero

    Local racehorse, Flow Meter, starting 200 times (20-26-27)

    Jools Holland’s piano solo on ‘Uncertain Smile’ by The The

    Pirate Life’s South Coast Pale Ale

    The impeccable kicking action of Glenelg captain Liam McBean

    The Adelaide Oval Hotel: the best way to sleep at (extra) deep backward square

    Picking mint from the garden for Claire’s (evening) gin and tonic

    Mr V’s record store on Semaphore Road

    Charcuterie for when too much meat is barely enough

    the incendiary live version from Goat Island of ‘Only the Strong’ by Midnight Oil

    The giant metallic sculpture of a pigeon in Rundle Mall

    Four hours of annual wine and chat at Cellar Door Fest; just as Jordan remarks in The Great Gatsby: I like large parties. They’re so intimate.

    At Carols in the Sidney Myer Music Bowl, the peculiarly comforting sight of Denis Walter

    Philip Larkin: The trees are coming into leaf/ Like something almost being said

    0

    Jeff the Goat, Guitar Hero!

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    Jeff the goat lived in Tiger Mountain State Forest near Seattle. He had a long, white, wispy beard and he played a guitar and sang.

    Well, sort of.

    When Jeff strummed his guitar and sang the bears and the cougars and even the fish in the streams would flee. He was truly, utterly, completely awful and the noise was like someone had thrown a bicycle into a nasty crushing machine.

    Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Jeff played it again. He liked the sound of it. ‘Gee, I’m so good,’ Jeff said to himself.

    Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Right then, two bears, four cougars and even the slowest fish in the Tiger Mountain State Forest fled.

    Suddenly, Jeff stopped playing his guitar. He cleared his goaty throat and his long, white, wispy beard drifted about in the breeze. Turning to his goat-sister Peggy he declared in a squeaky, goaty voice, “I am going to Seattle to be a famous guitarist!”

    Peggy’s goaty eyes widened. “Oh, no Jeff. You can’t go! Your home is here in Tiger Mountain State Forest.” A tear ran down her goaty face towards her long, white, wispy beard. Peggy gulped, “I’ll miss you. Please stay here with me.”

    Jeff reared up onto his back two legs and in his squeaky goat voice he shouted, “I am going to be a famous guitarist, and no one can stop me. Especially not you Peggy!”

    And with a huff Jeff the Goat scrambled away, his hooves click-clacking on the rocks.

    He did not look back at his sister Peggy. Her long, wispy, white beard was drenched with tears.

    The air was fresh, and the sun sent down golden shafts of warm light as Jeff trotted along the track. In the distance he heard a bear growl and Jeff shouted to the sky, “You don’t worry me Mr Bear for I’m going to Seattle to be a famous guitarist!” He laughed and lifted his goaty hooves higher and faster. Fame and fortune would soon be his!

    Goat-scurrying along Jeff stopped by a sign and read it aloud. ‘Poo Poo Point Hiking Trail!’ His beard danced in the crisp mountain breeze. ‘I’m going the right way if I’m on Poo Poo Point Hiking Trail. I’m close.’

    Over the trees Jeff saw a shiny tower stretching towards the clouds. ‘Yes,’ he yelled, ‘The Seattle Space Needle! I’ll play my guitar and sing to celebrate.”

    Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! 

    The noise was so horrid that two sparrows flew away. They didn’t stop until they landed on the North Pole. Jeff didn’t hear them flap away as he was smiling at his own song. He trotted on.

    Friday night in Seattle and cars honked their horns, and the neon lights blinked and shone.

    Jeff the goat’s long, white, wispy beard quivered with excitement for in precisely twenty-eight minutes he’d be on Seattle’s Got Talent! He could taste the sweet taste of fame and fortune in his goaty mouth.

    A voice boomed out. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Tiger Mountain State Forest, will you please give it up for Jeeeeeeeefffffffff the gooooooooaaaaaat!’

    The curtains drew back. The lights burned into his beady, blinky, goaty eyes and Jeff knew he’d win.

    Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Now, the crowd at Seattle’s Got Talent was generous and happy but even they had a limit. The windows exploded at the horrible noise.

    Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  The stage curtains blew away.

    Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  The lights went dark.

    It was so truly, utterly, completely awful that the crowd couldn’t even boo. Jeff the guitar-playing goat was finished. He knew he wouldn’t enjoy fame and fortune.

    Pushing open the back door of Seattle’s Got Talent, Jeff stepped into the drizzly alleyway.

    ‘Oh, Jeff,’ a goaty voice squeaked from beneath a streetlight. ‘Can I give you a hug?’

    It was Peggy.

    ‘Oh, Peggy. I’m so sorry.’ Jeff put his hooves around his goat-sister. ‘I’ve made such a fool of myself, and I was horrible to you.’

    Both their long, white, wispy beards were wet with rain and tears.

    Peggy smiled at her brother. ‘It’s OK. Tiger Mountain State Forest and the bears, the cougars and even the fish have missed you. Let’s go home.’