Category Archives: love

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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

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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.’

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From Adelaide Oval to Chicago

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Saturday and we’re debuting at the Adelaide Oval Hotel. You’re in a seminar at Ayers House so I take the tram in. Waiting for you, I sit on a bench, the invigorating sun with a startling August burst. Our afternoon stretches out like a ribbon of time as I read my new (second hand) purchase, the funny and hundred-year-old, Three Men in a Boat. Leisure and royal indulgence await us.

*

Dragging our bumping cases, the glorious petite-train sound of the luggage wheels evokes the infinite joy of travel. We cross Hindley Street (stark by day) and then North Terrace, painterly as ever, before plunging into the railway station. Emerging in a balmy light we span the Torrens footbridge and photograph our progress. We’ve come to the Oval since we were kids but today’s like the first time.

*

Later in the winter balminess we appear on the stadium concourse before circumnavigating the oval. There’s no traffic noise in this village but we’ve chirpy birdsong for company. At Light’s Vision we peer over the city and discuss the Colonel’s life and legacy. Adelaide sits below, quietly confident but still small and welcoming. Complemented by gentle chat we arrive back at the East Gate and ascend to our room for Happy Hour by candlelight.

*

Thursday and we’re in the Festival Theatre for Chicago. Once upon a time you were in a production of this celebrated musical, and this delicious knowledge frames my experience. Before, during, and after the production, you whisper your theatrical insights to me, and these are magical, textual (and contextual) delights. I love the warmth of this secret discovery.

*

After the performance, we skate into the night and trudge soggily back to the car through the flooding footpaths. Hindley Street is smeared with neon and desperation and steering beachward through the sheeting rain, the wipers squark and flap.  

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You and I Colour in the Hours

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The beach, our beach, lies serenely under the mild weather and is sparsely populated.

Awaking early, you urge me to accompany you. We’d not been for months. Trackies and coats, and off we went. Coffee would wait and welcome us back home, warmly.

Three D radio plays in the car and you ask about Classic FM. I reply that it’s most needed for the monotony of workday commutes.

Stormy weather’s dumped seaweed along the sand, and you wonder if this is the culprit of your recent mystery (leg) bites. Shortly after, I feel a scratch at my ankle but it’s a false alarm or a sympathy sting. We survive.

There’s a urine odour coming from the rocks by the ramp. Its stink is still there upon our return. We speculate about its origin: canine or (yuk) human?

We see a woman named Sara and her dog, part poodle, part Golden Retriever. In its mouth is a tennis ball and not a nugget of gold (disappointing as they promise to retrieve gold).

I’m pleased to have started this day by surveying our beach. It’s a treat.

*

I love how a Sunday can unfurl with only minor obligations and the buoyant opportunity during which you and I colour in the hours.

There’s such domestic intimacy in the gentle rituals of coffee, oats, and toast (these last two a half-rhyme). Sharing breakfast with you is rich with subtext because of the closeness of dawn. I’m newly grateful that this is part of our morning.

Our chat topics meander from Greece to the day’s chores including brasso and handles and watch bands (only briefly considered for ‘My Favourite Things’) to the Meg Ryan airport film we watched last night and the various personal connections we unearthed.

There’s mostly affirmation and encouragement of each other. It’s a healthy and kind exchange as befits a weekend day before lunch.  

*

With ladder and baskets and Mum’s good scissors (similarly rejected by Julie Andrews) we tramp next door to Mrs. Hambour’s as requested by her son, Nick. You climb the ladder, and I steady you during your ascent. This, too, is a privilege for which I’m pleased. You flick open the latch and in we go.

It’s still and quiet.

Beneath the lemon tree, I pluck off some sizable specimens while you snip some camelias. It’s joyous foraging and a perfect way to invest some languid moments. The simple rhythm of our dual labours is meditative.  

The tree has presented with a substantial crop, and I remark that we should return in a few weeks. You make the kind comment that the camelias would be nice for Mum’s birthday, but I suggest by then they could be finished. I note how like so much of what you offer others, there’s endless generosity in the promotion of happiness.

I also contemplate my blessing in finding you here with me on this calm and tender morning. It’s miraculous and soaring evidence of how wonderous our little planet can be.

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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.

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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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Car Horns are Versatile Instruments

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Smiling and waving as you reverse your car. Sunglasses on.

You’re going to an interpreting job. It could be a medical appointment or to watch and learn at a play rehearsal. Or maybe it’s somewhere for yourself like the gym for a yoga class or the beach for an energetic amble.

Of course, you began this ritual and as I hover waiting for its embrace, the arrival is still a sweet surprise. The roller-door descends and moving from the garage to the patio, I feel gratitude for this miracle of everyday punctuation.

A cheery melody. A petite suburban symphony as joyful as the piccolo trumpet solo on ‘Penny Lane.’

There it is. You honk the horn.

Toot-toot!

In your Toyota RAV, you surge down our street. A show of love, the sound’s both a fond farewell but also a promise you’ll keep me close throughout your excursion across our flat, murmuring city.

Now inside, I head to my desk or maybe I’ll wash the large saucepan I’ve rescued from the dishwasher’s clutches. These appliances are theatres of unceasing, marital contest. Ours is a gentle skirmish over a fundamental ideological question: what truly belongs in a dishwasher?

Driving out into the world in your enticing way, you take your warmth and kindness, and the fortunate beneficiaries will be friends and appreciative strangers.

If operated deftly, car horns are versatile instruments. Communicating anger with a single, sustained attack, they can also surprise with a sudden chirp, but your vehicular sonata rises above the ordinary by offering double-noted devotion.

Cascading through the front door, and up the passageway, this amber sound splashes out across the back lawn. Like a bouncing catamaran, it also sails over our home.

In our mostly undisturbed neighbourhood, this rare private and public expression springs over fences and into the sanctuaries of others, a sonorous reminder of the easy joys found in our seaside enclave.

So, as you dash into the realm beyond, leaving behind the fading tones of your affectionate toot, I’m comforted that this aural hug, this little wonder, will linger in the quiet spaces until your homecoming.

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Under the Blonde Light by a Hahndorf Bakery

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Running up the main street, noting the folk sat outside various coffee shops, I then veer about by Otto’s Bakery.

An American was explaining something to a passive local sitting and eating toast about four seats away. He seemed confident and had a rich voice like he had, or thought he should have, his own podcast. Aproned people were wiping down the tables outside both pubs leaving glistening trails of cleanliness ready for the lunchtime slop of unwieldy German steins.

The once-drowsy slumber of the evening had vanished, giving way to the bustling dawn of a Tuesday.

Amidst this tumbling tableau a woman passed me going the other way along the footpath. In a whirl of forceful purpose, she was striding fast but reading her book as she went. It was a rare sight, a fusion of worlds, an embodiment of the allure of a solitary journey amidst the written word.

I love early mornings.

Some are taken in nature like Saturday on parkrun dissecting the pine forest by the Myponga Reservoir and mornings like today as a town awakes and smiling hospitality staff scurry about. I run through it all.

Turning by the Otto’s bakery at the top of the street, suddenly a golden, soft light was behind me and bathed the scene with warmth that carried profound love and unornamented joy and you, Claire. It was a welcome alchemy, and a transcendent instant.

In that moment, I was spirited away across continents, to Italy, to a morning much like this one, perhaps in Monterosso on the Cinque Terre. Meandering about with a coffee along narrow lanes we looked at those charming shops and Mediterranean homes and funny little three-wheeled utes for which I found curious affection.

Those unsophisticated amblings during which we spoke of our surroundings and the day ahead and sometimes directed our chat back home. And you were the only person I knew in that entire country, that foreign soaring land, and I wondered how younger me would have been astonished and surprised but grateful beyond expression.

One day soon Claire we’ll be in Hahndorf, and in a minor pilgrimage I’d like to point out the spot by Otto’s Bakery where Italy, you and the remarkable gift that is each day came together in a singular, luminous moment.

Scampering back that bright second metamorphosed to a meditation, and then a prayer offering thanks for all that’s transpired and all that’s to be.

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Mystery Pub: The Sailmaster

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Turning right off Port Road just west of my work in Hindmarsh we’re immediately whizzed along by the vast volume of traffic on the bland if instructively named Northern Expressway.

We’d completed twenty-six instalments of Mystery Pub but not previously used this motorway and Claire was captivated. ‘I wonder where we’re going?’ she asked, not unfairly. ‘Surely, not the Hamley Bridge pub?’ I’d recently learnt that this old country boozer had reopened, and this might’ve caught her attention too. ‘No,’ I reassured Claire, kindly, if monosyllabically.

It’s always good when Mystery Pub generates a sense of mystery.

We drive on.

*

The Lefevre Peninsula is Adelaide’s most intriguing locality.

A narrow sand-spit in the city’s north, there’s abundant charm and fascination. Just as the good folk of the Lone Star State are Texans first and Americans second, I imagine Peninsula people are also ferociously loyal.

The Sailmaster, North Haven’s stylish and airy pub, sits by and over the marina. After a dismal, constantly windy and cold spring, our bright and warm afternoon is glorious. It’s a big tavern with generous spaces, and the breeze moves through it like the East Egg mansion of Tom and Daisy Buchanan, as featured in The Great Gatsby.

On the deck we claim a table and the marina’s a festive sight with yachts and their denuded masts, bobbing in the exquisite, wafting day. I’m not a boatie but like sometimes to be proximate to watercraft, to feel their unhurried symbolism while carefree gulls wheel above.

The effervescent bar-keep counsels me into changing Claire’s wine to a Squealing Pig Sauvignon Blanc. I consent, as Friday afternoon’s no time for petty squabbles, and his priestly guidance is compelling.

In the Cargo Bar a big screen shows the Adelaide Test catapulting towards its unavoidable conclusion. Again, I don’t need to be there, but it reassures me that if I wanted to, I could. It’s a privilege to be met with abundant choice in our modest, isolated city.

The beer menu is daring and encouraging. Beyond the robust stalwarts, there’s some craft brews from emerging producers, and I settle upon a Barossa Blonde from Lyndoch’s Ministry of Beer.

Every country town in our nation will one day host both a distillery and a craft brewer. How fantastic to be in the steel vat business? Could you keep up with demand? Should I get one for my shed?

*

The central concept driving Mystery Pub, you might be surprised to read, is not just a monthly Friday during which we drop our snouts in the trough. No, really.

It’s a shared enterprise and an unbroken series of bids from one to the significant other. It’s an invitation to be immersed. Hopefully, the pub deck doesn’t give way and we are suddenly immersed in the Gulf St Vincent.

But this is about locating a novel nook among new-found and engaging surrounds, alongside the person with whom, on the weekend’s cusp, you most want to invest a lazy, nautical hour.

So much of life should be about conversation, and Mystery Pub is an occasion for this. It’s a twinkling hour to dissect the immediate past and anticipate our joyous onward march. Either way I love surrendering to my wife’s delightful orbit, when the context of the pub vanishes, and we could be anywhere across our elongated capital.

*

Steering south from The Sailmaster, the maritime suburbs materialise and then dissolve, their flat contentment a merry vista.

Osbourne, Taperoo. Largs. Semaphore.

Military Road moves us along and the blue light slants in through the windows. Peering at townhouses and bluestone villas, we ask each other if we could live here or there and ponder the possibilities while projecting our looming selves into these communities. All have their attendant attractions and distractions.

There’s a heartening intimacy in the speculation, an enlightening probing of each other’s thinking, and some of Claire’s responses surprise me, and some don’t but this, of course, is a towering triumph. How lucky are we to be right here, right now driving along this prosperous esplanade? The moments are both stretched like a slow dawn and as difficult to snare as mosquitos.  

And then West Beach becomes Glenelg North, and our garage door climbs up, so we finish off Friday and wave in the weekend.

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Why I Love When Harry Met Sally

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Chicago to New York is a lengthy drive and mere minutes in Harry grabs his grapes, eats one, and with alarming vigour, spits the seed out of Sally’s car window.

Only problem: the window’s up. 

Leaving the glass splattered in grape-spit, Harry isn’t bothered. He continues to eat and expectorate like a hunter attempting to fell a beast with a blow-dart. The sound design of this is geared to maximise our irritation and unlike many films set in NYC When Harry Met Sally rarely looks overly sumptuous and alluring. It’s really a series of theatrical conversations.

Prior to the grape-eating episode as Harry and his girlfriend exchange their sloppy farewells, Sally honks her car horn to tell him she’s eager to leave. This shows us she’s also a little cantankerous and that the central conflict’s going to be tantalising. Knowing the conclusion, this awkward start heightens our curiosity.

How will the romance between Harry and Sally unfold?

Each is flawed, but charismatic and after a decade of brief, seemingly inconsequential encounters, their friendship finally blossoms.

And what a tremendous friendship it is.

*

Central to the film’s celebrated status is the use of extracts from interviews with older Italian couples. Inspired by actual conversations, the screenwriter Nora Ephron crafted these six scenes so they’re earnest, funny, and emblematic of enduring love.

MAN: I was sitting with my friend Arthur Cornrom in a restaurant. It was a cafeteria and this beautiful girl walked in and I turned to Arthur and I said, “Arthur, you see that girl? I’m going to marry her, and two weeks later we were married and it’s over fifty years later and we are still married.

These segments Illuminate our perceptions of Harry and Sally and function collectively as both a prologue to their love story, but also a euphoric epilogue. They help to enlist our hope. We want our central characters to tell a similar story.

*

Playing Pictionary on a Saturday evening years ago with friends (including my now wife, Claire) and one pair was trying to identify a grumpy-animal blob. Of course the game’s dark goal is to cruelly enjoy the other participants’ frustrations. Their attempts went like this:

              Koala! Koala!

Partner shakes head. Waves pencil at ambiguous drawing.

              Sad animal! Sad animal!

Partner again shakes head. Stabs at picture which is now representative of violence towards the partner.

              Bear! Bear! Frown bear!

Frown bear?

Decades on, we still talk about frown bear. We’ve all known a frown bear. When Harry Met Sally is also a celebration of friendship, and an illustrative moment is the Pictionary episode-

Harry: Rosemary’s Baby’s mouth! Won’t you come home Bill baby!

Woman: Babababy…kiss the baby!

Harry: Melancholy baby’s mouth!

Jess: Baba…baby fish mouth, baby fish mouth!

The deft, heartening bond between Harry and Jess is a counterpoint to the pronounced pessimism that Harry often shows Sally. During a football game the two men talk unreservedly. Meanwhile, a Mexican wave circles the stadium and their mindless participation in it as Harry delves into his marital woes is comical and poignant. He speaks of his estranged wife

Harry: “I don’t know if I’ve ever loved you.”

Jess: Ooo that’s harsh.

(They partake in the Mexican wave)

Jess: You don’t bounce back from that right away.

Harry: Thanks Jess.

*

A tightly crafted monologue is always a cinematic treat, and having arrived at his epiphany, Harry runs across Manhattan (there’s always someone running during the climax of a rom-com) and delivers this to Sally

I love that you get cold when it’s seventy-one degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes, and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible.

Harry’s speech has an appealing rhythm and the repetition of key ideas like love and you add to its enveloping intimacy. A joyous soliloquy, ‘and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night’ is a great, starry-eyed desire that holds very true for me.

*

So, before Christmas devours the calendar, Claire and I enjoy an early December tradition, when on a Sunday night with wine and chocolate, we arrive in the kind-hearted, affirming world of When Harry Met Sally.

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You in the Garden

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Bustling through the kitchen I’m delighted to hear music as the Billy Joel record would’ve finished twenty minutes ago when I was at the beach.

I’m instantly elated that you’ve put another album on the turntable. I want it to be your record player too. I want it to be a shared hobby. Music is such a rich part of our relationship, and with this simple, affirming act, you just composed another song.

Arriving on the patio is a scene from our movie and this one is shot from my point of view. The record is Supertramp’s Breakfast in America and I know you like them too. They are evocative of our teenage years. All the promise and the torture.

There’s been a whirl of activity with plants and prunings and dead stuff scattered on the lawn in piles. This is movingly symbolic. It’s our home and you’re invested. I love that this has happened while I’ve been elsewhere, during our mid-afternoon.

This is a quiet triumph. A minor, suburban miracle.

Then, of course, there’s you.

In your lovely hair, all tied in a ponytail, there’s bits of twigs and leaves. You’re in a simple, checked shirt and your (now) muddy jeans. You’re wearing black gardening gloves, and these are at once stylish and practical. The camera trails us around while overhead the festive clouds skip by. The water feature percolates away.

With their galloping piano and saxophone and catchiness Supertramp continues, at volume of course. You give me a tour of your horticultural achievements. This is boundlessly heartening and yet another big moment in our small, precious life.

And regularly during this episode you smile your smile. It’s so loving and pure and utterly perfect. I follow you about the garden across the lawn. Our anonymous space is now enchanted by care and devotion but mostly you.

This movie scene has been a magical, unforeseen gift.

Thank you, Claire Louise.

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Mystery Date: Magarey Medals and Magill Road

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Claire and I share a monthly tradition in which one takes the other to a secret pub for a Friday hour. But Mystery Pub has a less frequent and more leisurely sibling we call Mystery Date.

Saturday was my turn to be indulged.

Some loathe surprise but I love to bask in the underlying kindness. Parking the car at Light Square I’m then on foot and chaperoned through our handsome city. The clouds made a low, grey ceiling and the streets were emptyish. Claire wondered if the subdued, barren landscape were still plagued by the pandemic.

North Terrace is an elegant boulevard befitting Paris or Madrid and as we scurried past the casino, art gallery and assorted statues of older men, less-old men and dead men on horseback I was curious about our first stop.

Our Footy, Our People, Our Stories was an invitation to drift back gently to my childhood. The SANFL exhibition features photos and sound archives and film footage. We watched the highlights of Glenelg’s 1986 triumph and then saw Port Adelaide win the 1988 flag, the first of nine premierships in about a decade. I understood Macbeth’s despondency upon seeing that Banquo’s offspring would reign forever when he mutters in disgust, ‘Will the line stretch out until the crack of doom?’

How great to then pause in the Library Café and peer out across the wet courtyard and admire the museum and meditate upon the joyous escapism these majestic buildings provided us when we were kids. They still do.

After some sneaky misdirection and circuitous driving to preserve the mystery Claire pulled up on Magill Road. Drifting east and in and out of some antiques stores we also gazed in the windows of boutiques and restaurants and speculated upon their offerings. We chatted constantly and made connections to our surroundings, and each other.

Wolfie’s Records occupies an entire cottage and sells vinyl, vintage clothing and used turntables. In a small room Claire and I flicked through the racks of albums and here’s a snippet of our conversation-

C- Rod Stewart. Yuk.

M- Here’s a Jackson Browne record I’ve been after.

C- Great. I like him too.

M- Phil Collins. One word- why?

C- Oh, God. Dr. Hook!

M- No, we already have the Sherbet Collection.

C- Ripper ’77?

M- Has the entire country flogged off their LRB collection?

And then in another cottage crowded with audiophiles we repeated the process a few doors up at Big Star Records. It was a lovely, diverting hour and I was keen to play my new/used $10 copy of Running on Empty. Over a warming shiraz later that night it would teleport me back to Kapunda and Year 11 when I understood little of it but tried to imagine its palm-treed Californian world.

Having gifted me an afternoon of footy and music, with her unparalleled kindness my wife then drove me through Stepney’s narrow streets to the Little Bang Brewery at which she’d made a reservation for two.

It was bursting with good fortune and a thrumming din. A sign announced a party that had assembled for ‘Mitch’s 30th.’ With Pinto Gris and IPA refreshments aboard we decamped to our cosy balcony space and surveyed the steel beer vats.

Suitable menu items were selected and we dissected our excursion and considered the evening. Identifying Mitch we note that his wife appeared to be about 8 and 3/4 months pregnant so we silently wished them joy and patience from our lofty location.

The fare was fine and as always I enjoyed my beery excursion into novelty. Steering through the mid-winter dusk and thrilling despairing at the radio’s description of Port losing, I contemplated the spring edition of Mystery Date which I’d curate for Claire.

It would soon be upon us.

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On Being Gentle

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Over the Adelaide Hills an orange pinkness stretches out into our sky. It bursts as a cathedral across the city.

Here, on the tiny yellow ribbon of sand we’re rotating deathlessly towards the sun and a Thursday dawn is upon us. The beach is ours alone and in coats and scarves and beanies we tramp north. Heading along by the regularly crashing waves, and into our promising days, we exchange ideas both small and transformational.

Are these vivid almost hallucinogenic sunrises and sunsets still caused by the Tongan volcanic eruption? Or given our seemingly heightened human catastrophe, is this nature’s reassurance that our problems are petty and of cosmic inconsequence?

On the sand there’s a scramble of human and dog prints like kid’s scribble. In the gathering light we wonder if these are the earthy reminders of those who’ve come before us this morning, or these fleeting impressions survived the night by escaping the high tide’s indifference.

It’s a great spot to visit as a dog. Some parade abound, heads proudly aloft with dribbly tennis balls wedged in mouth while others greet the water and each other. On the King Street bridge we later spy the much loved trio of Golden Retrievers. Their happiness is instructive. But today, the beach is quiet and we’re bathed in gentleness.

I can’t name a single Charlotte Church song but glancing at an article recently noted that her best advice is, ‘be gentle.’ It’s something I’ve heard over the years and it’s curious that saying this to myself in a Welsh lilt (she’s from Cardiff) I’ve finally vowed to allow it deeper governance. Unlike the mock-heroic inner forearm inscriptions of ‘Brayden’, ‘Jayden’ or ‘No Regerts’ I think ‘be gentle’ would make a good tattoo. Maybe not on your bum.

A Friday or two back my wife Claire and I went to the Gov to see Josh Pyke. It was a triumph and sitting by the open fire it was lounge room intimate. Paul Kelly is our finest storyteller, but there’s an argument that JP is our most accomplished and affecting musical poet.

He took us on a kindly tour of his celebrated catalogue and these songs are often fragile prayers. They promote gentleness. ‘The Lighthouse Song’ is an ode to the joyous notions of sacrifice to the other and mindfulness-

So we are moving to a lighthouse, you and I
While seas drown sailors, we’ll be locked up safe and dry
And we are moving to a lighthouse, you and I
Our beams will burn the clouds to beacons in the sky
And though our doors may knock and rattle in the wind
I’ll just hold you tight and we’ll not let those others in.

But at dawn with my wife Claire on our sweep of beach I thought of his new tune called, ‘A Town You’ve Never Been To.’ It’s a hymn of gratitude for his musical and poetic gifts, and a wish for his various personal and artistic loves to remain unbroken. It’s a quest for adventure and truth.

I think it’s also about wishing to be gentle.

So find a street that you’ve never been down
In a town that you’ve been to
And sing a song that you love for me

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The Wedding of Nugg and Loz

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Last October the Kimba crew were in a Yorke Peninsula winery but it was closing early because of a wedding reception. The rustic setting was decorated in bright colours and a large sign announced the nuptials of Nugg and Loz. We speculated on the nature of the father of the bride speech over shiraz and a charcuterie , Chaka Chan platter. It was a funny lunch.

Any resemblance to persons living or otherwise is tremendous.

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Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Nugg and Loz’s wedding. I’m proud to be giving this father of the bride speech. Don’t you agree that what we saw earlier was a moving and beautiful ceremony?  

I want to start by thanking everyone for coming here to the reception tonight at the Currabunga/Nungeedowner/St Frumentius Cricket Club. Even though the windows were all stolen yesterday I don’t think it’s too cold in here at all. I just heard that Fred’ll be back soon with two blankets so that’ll help. It’s lovely here, though, isn’t it? Well, at least it is now that the blizzard is over.

A big thanks as well to everyone who’s assisted with the catering. I’m confident when I say that these are the finest egg and brussel sprout sandwiches that’ve ever been served at a wedding.

Today, December 15, is also Sam the butcher’s birthday. Sam grew up a long, long way from here in Cairns and we learnt ukulele together as kids. Although he’s never visited here and as near as I can tell none of you has heard of him, I thought it important to mark this date.

As you can see, Loz or Lauren as her mother and me and Uncle Dennis named her, inherited her stunning looks from her mother, definitely not me.

You’ve become a strong, independent woman. We’re all so proud of you Loz and especially your decision to start your own plumbing business. It’s the finest plumbing business in Currabunga. It might be the only plumbing business in Currabunga, but I’ll stand by these words.

We also know that deciding to run your own plumbing business without a vehicle is challenging. We’ve all seen you out on your bicycle riding around town, carrying broken toilets and washing machines and kitchen sinks under your right arm as you steer your wobbling bike with your left. This is surely a sign of your determination, Loz.

Now to Jayden or Nugg as everyone here knows you. Loz’s mother Beryl and I have long had our eye on you as a very talented young man. Once I first noticed you as a twelve-year-old when you came 5th in the fielding trophy for the Currabunga/Nungeedowner/St Frumentius Cricket Club Under 10’s, I knew you’d be a leader in our town. Maybe one day you’ll tell me your secret. I was never much of a cricketer. I guess it doesn’t help that I didn’t learn to swim.

I’m not a man of endless words; honestly, I’m more comfortable playing a ukulele to my pet goats around the woodshed, but I do want to say that Jane, sorry, Loz, has been the light of my life.

Now, a little birdie told me that these two newlyweds have planned a very exciting honeymoon. Tomorrow Nugg and Loz are leaving the Currabunga/Nungeedowner/St Frumentius Cricket Club and cycling forty minutes east to achieve their life-long dream. And do I hear you ask where are they going? Yes, you guessed it! To Jones Valley and its world-famous Dishwasher Museum.

And now, as I end this father of the bride speech, I’d like to raise a toast to my daughter and son-in-law. I wish the two of you the very best in the years ahead.

To Nugg and Loz and a beautiful future.

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Dawn in Dubai Airport

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Early morning.

My favourite time of day as it’s when I’m best aware of my enormous fortune and the garden of wonder that’s you. But I’ve not had one like this before.

Generically, Dubai airport is familiar, and the air is warm and cocooned. There’s buzz and privilege as well as some thrilling strangeness. Just as there should be when travelling.

We saunter about this recognisable and vaguely indecipherable place before claiming a table in Costa Coffee. I feel the delirium of little sleep, and the gentle euphoria of life blissfully interrupted, blended with the expectation of what’s ahead in our week. It’s like when you stay up all night the first time as a teenager and see in the dawn.

There’re people everywhere and I love the secret intimacy of being with you in a crowded place.

As we waited for our coffee – I’m unsure if we ordered food; possibly a small cake – I remember feeling safe. I’m sure it was because of you and the psychological and emotional comfort you bring. I also felt distinctly still, despite hurtling 11,000 kilometres.

These were our first overseas moments together and they’d been an infinity coming. Having fled Australia, we now caught our breath.

It was a key scene in our movie and the camera was rolling.

I recall speaking low and conspiratorially with you. We shared confidences. As you spoke, I had a moment, born of responsibility and devotion. These moments are unexpected and seismic; I think they rush out of our long past and wash over me with a warmth and a love and a relief to which I can only surrender.

It was an episode that to a stranger might have seemed ordinary but was a sublime, quietly joyous hour. It continues to possess deep and subtle symbolic power for me.

Airports are hubs of promise where life can be amplified to magical dimensions. In that otherwise forgettable coffeeshop we were halfway to Europe and our fête, for two.

It was both prologue and epilogue.