0

How Good’s Grand Final Week?

|

Siren sounds.

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

Somehow, we’re in the Grand Final.

*

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

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

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

*

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

‘Go, Tigers.’

‘Come on, the Bays.’

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

*

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

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

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

*

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

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

We’re with him.

*

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

I anticipate its zesty hoppiness.

*

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

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

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

The opening siren.

*all photos courtesy of the author

2

Mstry Pb – Frydy Nght Drnks

|

Twilight. Peel Street.

Pulsing with purpose. Chirps off-stage. Little eruptions of colour, of movement. Bars and secret nooks and tiny eateries.

It and Leigh Street run off Hindley Street and these evolving clusters also show Adelaide’s bold new face. Not just the ever-sprouting steel and glass towers or modern bowl of the cricket ground. The fizz is affirming.

Claire instructed me kindly to ‘walk down the street’ — and I did, trusting her logistics. Stepping along the gray pedestrian lane, a voice called out to me. I know this better than a Beatles’ song.

The sky stretches upward as it can in late August, promising rebirth. It’s crisp — pyramidal heaters guard the doorway.

I’ve been summoned to a bar called Bckyrd. I gather wine and beer. We sit. It’s the bubble to which I’ve pinned my week — Claire’s hand warm like a winery fireplace.

As a linguistic device, Bckyrd appeals to me. It’s an example of consonantal abbreviation and is a marketing tool. Think of Tumblr, Flckr, or the Primal Scream album, XTRMNTR. Also known as disemvoweling (Freddy Krueger areas) or graphological deviation (worrying if suggested by your proctologist). Drop one of these terms into the chat when you’re next at the footy club.

Fairy lights above. Open sky. Three levels of Bckyrd, but we stay grounded. Can a bckyrd really have three stories?

Exchanging thoughts, little prayers to each other. Conversation like Sunday tennis — parabolic lobs, wayward shots, long rallies.

It’s a heartening hour. Tonight I’m Mcky Rndll. Vowels gone. Age gone. Almost.

See — now I feel edgy. Influential.

0

Sausage Roll Review: Live N Let Pie

|

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

0

The Beautiful Behind

|

Mist hangs inside the Adelaide Oval, the arena lights smudgy and weary. A sullen sky thinks about raining but can’t be bothered to do so properly. It could be Yorkshire — on a summer’s day.

We’re in the Sir Donald Bradman Pavillion and it’s late in the last quarter of the Glenelg and Adelaide qualifying final.

The ball has morphed into a cake of soap — Palmolive Gold — yet somehow the disposal quality is still impressive — from both teams. It’s ferocious, it’s close. All afternoon, our forwards have been suffocated. The Crows intercept and rebound regularly. Our tackles are often swotted aside with indifference. The indicators are worrying.

Down two goals. On a slippery deck, old friend Brett and I decide this lead is worth four. We’re spluttering but Lachie Hosie converts a timely shot to the northern end. Six points in it but it feels like an unconquerable canyon.

The clock marches on. A bedevilling resignation forms. Crows fans grow louder. In front of us, an elderly couple — she in a Crows scarf, he in a Tigers top. Someone’s going home grumpy.

Every time they surge forward, Adelaide looks irresistible. Our defenders battle to be bold and resolute, to borrow from Macbeth.

Glancing at the scoreboard I see the clock ticking past 24 minutes. I say to Brett, ‘We really need to hurry.’

He replies, ‘There can’t be much time-on.’

26 minutes. Can only be a minute or two. I dread the siren.

Darcy Bailey pumps it to the square. Luke Reynolds slips behind the pack. He’s been below his best, but this is his moment. The ball spills and he edges into the corridor. With the outside of his left boot, he caresses it through like an Italian striker! Bellissima.

Scores are level. Ecstasy immediately swamped by threat of the cruel clock. Planes drone overhead. I bet it’s chilly at the Showgrounds. Only the woodchoppers would be warm — my hot chips are forgotten.

Heading deep into an unbearable thirty-first minute, Jarrod Lyons drives it into the arc. This is it.

Matty Allen snatches a quick handball from Hosie, steadies on a slight angle, and kicks. This afternoon has been one of relentless danger and suddenly, Glenelg finds its twinkling of grace. He dribbles the soggy Sherrin and tumbling goalward, it bounces three or four times and clangs into the post.

Have we just seen the best behind ever?

Tiger roar in the stands. Uniquely, Australian rules football rewards scoring inaccuracy and I love how this reflects our best, laconic selves (Good try matey but not quite. Here have a point!) and so, we lead, 74 – 73. On my all-time favourite left-footers list, number 22 climbs a few rungs to join Freddy McGuinness, Matty Bode and Ruory ‘Space Goat’ Kirkby.

The moments stretch excruciatingly. Allen’s behind is better than a goal — Adelaide must now go the full length of the ground. A major and a quick centre clearance could sink us. More anguish as the ball pings back and forth in our half.

Then the siren. And then the song crashes in: Oh, we’re from Tigerland / A fighting fury, we’re from Tigerland…

Like a Dickensian thief, we’ve pinched it. Seven consecutive wins in finals.

Two to go.

0

The (Claire Louise) Beverage Compliance Manual

|

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    0

    To Alex, as your final day at school looms

    |

    Dearest Alex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Off you go.

    Love always,

    Dad

    2

    Glenelg v Eagles — Pecker Park Ponderings

    |

    Woodville Oval is long.

    From fence to fence, it’s two-hundred massive metres. How agog must European or American visitors be who are accustomed to compact soccer pitches and gridiron fields? It reminds me of Rome’s chariot-racing stadium, the Circus Maximus, with its intimidating length and considerable circumference. Running laps here would be tough.

    Watching the Eagles in their warm-up jog, they appear (mostly) young and undersized. Two dozen are sidelined with injury. A good thing the QEH is out the back. Many look like they’re a year or two off (legally) driving. It’s bright and sunny. Clots of blokes in shorts. I prefer not to grizzle about footy catering — but wonder if I paid too much for my bucket of chip. A rare odourless wind blows in from the Port.

    After a scrappy opening, on Glenelg’s first entry Riley Holder dribbles it through. The Tigers then begin to exploit the oval’s massive acreage by sustaining possession with solid chains of handball and short passing. Archie Lovelock asserts himself with a smother, gather, and goal.

    Aw, Cracklin’ Hosie, gets on board with a major, characterised by his panther-like prowling and athletic predation. Jarryd Lyons was a Lion but now he’s a Tiger. While he and his brother Corey are in the team, a pair of Lyons doesn’t quite make a pride — but we’ll be proud of them if these feline fellows help win the flag. He takes some inspiring grabs.

    The Eagles kick two goals to commence the second term and courtesy of the zephyr, the Sherrin remains captive at the southern end. After twelve minutes Glenelg finally gets it inside fifty. This barren period is rare for such an attacking side but shows how our game is partly at the mercy of the elements. In a sometimes-malicious encounter there’s a skirmish on the forward flank from which Alex Martini emerges shaken not stirred.

    *

    The third quarter is underway and given the relentless wind I reckon we need to be at least six goals up at the final change to avoid a visit to the QEH cardiac ward — at least it’s only a swift stroll. A match highlight is the half a dozen frantic smothers from both sides and with a smile I recall the last-gasp effort from Will Chandler in the 2024 decider. I’m convinced this could’ve been the flag-winner.

    Second-half specialist Luke Reynolds scores after a free and then there’s one for the VHS tape with a (Darcy) Bailey banana. During a P&O cruise happy hour who wouldn’t welcome a Bailey(s) banana? The ever-elusive and unruffled Cole Gerloff goals following a retaliatory smother from Hosie. A blow-out approaches. The umpires endure five torrid minutes during which spectators from both camps bark disapproval to the wind — and as always, hear nothing back.

    In a display of sparkling local wit our first miss of the quarter is met with an aged antagonist yelling, ‘Sucked in.’ Laugh! A great captain’s tackle in our arc and with his immaculate kicking mechanics Liam McBean converts again. He’s the best shot for goal I’ve seen in our city since D. Jarman.

    McBean again. Lyons another hanger. Clouds now assembling over the Port and the air is suddenly chilled. Pleased I’m not in shorts.

    As is my spectating habit I move every quarter and for the concluding stanza I’m on the sloping lawns in front of the scoreboard. The breeze is now becalmed and so the ball has permission to venture to the northern end. We trade scores early but are largely unflustered by the hosts.

    With less fizz in the contest now than flat Fanta, the clock ticks down — but up on scoreboard. Only golf claps for goals. But there’s still outrage present with a late dubious free against the home side. Why is sporting dismay louder than celebration?

    It’s a win for the Tigers — modestly efficient. But we haven’t done much to sharpen our premiership credentials. I thread between the Barry Jarman Stand and the Percy Fox Green Stand and head to my car — half frozen, half hopeful.

    We’ll remain in a wary but largely inconsequential waltz with the Crows for second spot. Either way, the qualifying final looms.

    0

    Mystery Pub: Goo and Gump

    |

    The most magnetic pub in Norwood is The Colonist. Its exposed ceiling beams and ducts, and unplastered, aged walls give it a vintage aesthetic. Claire and I made the staccato crawl along Currie Street, through the parklands, and onto The Parade. Turning into the pub carpark, the golden light pushing from the windows into the darkening July evening set a welcoming tone, a hostelry hug.

    I’d booked a table by the fireplace and spent the working afternoon congratulating myself. I chuckled as I imagined Claire by the crackling flames melting into her Chesterfield, nursing a pepperminty Coonawarra cabernet, and smiling at me with involuntary, eternal appreciation. However, proudly marching us into the fireplace room, we stop and grimace as it’s more like a shopping centre café with severe, unforgiving lighting and utilitarian tables. It had less appeal than the pool chemicals aisle at Bunnings.

    Stools were urgently pilfered and we claimed a spot at the bar. With white wine and a Pirate Life ale (R) in front of us, we unwound into our visit and dissected the surroundings. The absences were gladly met. No TVs, no thumping house music, no maddening distractions. Just a pub bursting with punters. Occasionally, it’s elevating to be slap in the middle of the bellowing din, to be among boisterous strangers, and relish their anonymous shouting and thrumming oomph. A young, beardy man offered us oysters from a tray. ‘No, thanks,’ we chorused, glaring at the cold globs of snot.

    Contrasting with the naked women artworks decorating the pub innards was an interesting image. ‘See that picture on the far wall,’ I said pointing like a self-pleased museum tour guide, ‘that’s similar to a famous album cover.’ Claire surrendered to my mansplaining, powerless. ‘It’s like the album Goo by Sonic Youth.’ A great record, the cover art’s inspired by Maureen Hindley and David Smith, key witnesses in the 1966 Moors Murders trial involving a couple of (crazy) Mancunian serial killers. ‘Thanks for that!’ Claire could’ve chirped.

    We returned to our endeavours which being a Friday approaching six o’clock meant our second and final (boozer) drinks. Mystery Pub issues a license for us (Claire) to be alcoholically adventurous — this monthly boldness finds expression in cocktails. The arrival of a concocted refreshment is an event — her Long Island Iced Tea comes with aromatic New York cool and dreamy Gatsby evocations. Claire takes a purposeful sip. Then another. Her assessment: blah.

    A camel plops in the desert, the caravan moves on.

    Zinging along Greenhill Road and homeward bound (I wish I was) when a deplorably monstrous truck — a ute, to you and me, Gladys — veers into our lane. On its whale-sized rear bumper were two stickers. One read: Pray for America. Neither Claire nor I could tell if this came with irony or sincerity for Friday night, as we all know, is not the time for considered subtextual appraisals.

    The other was for Alabama’s Crimson Tide — the college football team Forrest Gump played for — not a sticker you often spot on Adelaide utes. The Crimson Tide is mentioned by 1970’s act Steely Dan on their Aja album in the song ‘Deacon Blues.’ It’s about elegant failure and I thought of my fireplace booking and Claire’s Long Island Iced Tea. The chorus goes

    Learn to work the saxophone
    I, I’ll play just what I feel
    Drink Scotch whiskey all night long
    And die behind the wheel
    They got a name for the winners in the world
    I, I want a name when I lose
    They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
    Call me Deacon Blues.

    Safely home in my wicker chair, beer in hand, Aja spun on the turntable. ‘Deacon Blues’ glided about the living room — to my delight, if not Claire’s. Mystery Pub had begun at The Colonist, but we’d detoured to far-flung Americana. This was intriguing and soaring.

    2

    No Helmets at Silly Mid-On: A Birthday Letter to Rocket

    |

    Hello there Rod

    Happy birthday! I thought it a fine moment to pause and raise a glass (West End if available) to a few tremendous memories from the vault…

    Let’s begin with the ongoing tradition of our SANFL Grand Final texts in the case of Sturt or Glenelg winning. You had the upper hand in 2016 and 2017; I had a turn in 2019, then received a text in 2023 and 2024. Surely one of us gets a message this year. Watch out!

    *

    I still think back to those Adelaide Oval Test matches of our youth. We loved the cricket, of course, but also the economy of the cheap kid’s ticket. More cash for beers. I can see us now at the Victor Richardson Gates — me first, just 17, sliding through. Then Davo. Taller. He’s waved in too. Chrisso, taller again, gets the nod after a suspicious squint from the bloke on the gate. But then comes you, all six-foot-five of you, last in the queue. The old guy takes your ticket, peers up, irritated, and says, ‘Are you sure you’re all under sixteen?’ Davo doesn’t miss a beat: ‘Yeah, we’re from the country. Breed ’em big out there.’

    We all then galloped straight to the hill and set up shop just in front of the Duck Pond. We heard the whistling of stems being pulled from empty kegs. Shortly after one of us came back with a plastic cup holder bursting with beers, slopping West End Draught onto the sloping lawns.

    *

    A highlight was most certainly the trip Chrisso, and I made to Coffs Harbour in July of 1990 to visit you and Michelle. We had a great week. I recall Mutton Bird Island, Par 3 golf in Coffs, the cocktail party with your footy club friends, going to the Sawtell RSL and Joe Bananas for dinner, lots of fun along the way and — of course — the triumphant meat tray at a local pub.

    Good people, good weather, and that ancient stubby holder still tells the tale!  

    *

    A less successful expedition was the 1982 Lutheran Youth trip to Naracoorte with Stephen in the Gem. Ending up in a ditch and travelling home by train! Found sanctuary on the Fanks farm. In between was a theological and beery blur. But we survived — just.

    *

    Then there was Melbourne in 2017 — you, me, the Hayward brothers, Lukey and Nick. Listening to Phil Carmen at the North Fitzroy Arms. He was truly compelling. It was a great event and as people say, you know it’s a big day when you get to the pub at noon and next thing, you’re ordering dinner there too before zipping into Young and Jackson’s for a midnight nightcap. Collingwood and Port the next day! Free bird seed. A funny weekend.

    *

    It was also terrific to be part of two Senior Colts cricket premierships. Fergy our coach. Tanunda and Angaston Ovals. I had a stint at silly mid-on when you charged in. No helmets in those days — and no shortage of courage. Both the Tanunda batsman and I in danger of fouling our whites. Especially when he defended one of your short balls using only his (four-cornered) head. I was sure it’d come straight off his double scoop Gray Nicolls.

    *

    But it wasn’t all bouncers and meat raffles. That you and Michelle asked Chrisso and I to act as ushers at your wedding ceremony in Hamilton remains an utter honour. The Yalumba reception was also excellent!

    Thanks for all this, Rod — the cricket, the laughs, the travel, the stories we can now retell like old blokes at a reunion. Hang on! Enjoy your extended birthday celebrations. Well played!

    Love

    Michael and Claire

    July 2025

    0

    Almost, Us

    |

    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.

    2

    Palmer Pub — Blue Got a Flat

    |

    I’ve always been a dreadful passenger.

    As a kid I was often carsick, and the rubber grounding straps Dad dangled from the back of the XY Falcon didn’t help. My skin went clammy, my face green, and my stomach leapt like a cornered cat.

    Winding our way to Mystery Pub reminded me of this.

    Claire was the Mystery Pub chaperone for the month of June. To preserve its integrity, I was on the front seat with a scarf wrapped around my noggin. Looking like a Merino mummy, I was sightless, and my gizzard was gurgly. It was a notorious pre-pub theme-park ride.

    In the city, Mystery Pub works by car or foot. But in the Adelaide Hills, as John Denver sweetly sang, country roads take me home — and they rarely lie about which pub’s waiting at the end.

    Here in these wide, antipodean spaces, we’re all prisoner to the hardhearted truth of geography.

    After a lengthy and nauseous crossing from our Birdwood digs, our car came to a stop. Yanking off my scarf, I blinked. Claire proclaimed, ‘Here we are. In Palmer.’ Home of granite outcrops including Bear Rock. Home to one hundred citizens. I flung open my door and gulped at the fresh air like a stranded goldfish.

    Palmer! Mystery Pub had delivered a most surprising surprise.

    I get a Pale Ale and Claire asks for a house white. Mine Host flees through a door (startlingly quick for an ample fellow) before reappearing with a glass of vino. Sipping, her face makes a grim assessment. With superior powers of deduction, Claire asserts that it must be, ‘Banrock Station. From a cask.’

    We go outside to the veranda and take in the vanishing orange light.

    I’d be happy to have misjudged the fellas sitting at the veranda table, adrift in a mountainous sea of discarded bingo tickets. Each bloke — there’s about ten of ’em — has a black drink in front of him: stout, Bundy, Coke and something. They all wear black beanies, black coats, and, near as I can tell, black jeans.

    Bingo tickets were once central to country pubs. Sold at the bar, punters would buy a handful, hoping to peel off a winner. Each batch held four prized reds, worth $50 each — a tidy sum and once enough to buy a busload of beer. 

    The sharp-eyed punters — usually nursing a West End — let others burn through the duds. Then, like card sharks, they’d pounce. Spend $30, snag a couple of reds, walk off with a hundred. As my mate Dick used to say, ‘A nice earn.’ Looking again at the unsightly swell of bingo tickets, Apocalypse Now comes to mind when Captain Willard says to Colonel Kurtz, ‘I don’t see any method at all, sir.’

    The blokes about the table talk in staccato ways — and all at once. But there’s laughter and warmth in their in half sentences. I catch the single newsworthy snippet. It’s from the gruff chap in the corner. He reveals, ‘Blue got a flat around lunchtime.’

    With this Claire and I head inside.

    The fire crackles along while there’s a flow of customers to and from the bar, ordering their dinner. Some dine in, others opt for takeaway. 80’s and 90’s ‘old school jams’ play on the TV until the VHS tape runs out. Sitting by a window, we flick through a tourist magazine and make a few amused observations.

    We watch folks come and go, just like fictional Queensland bouncer and former Eastern Suburbs Rooster Les Norton at the Bondi Icebergs.

    A painstakingly dressed woman presents at the bar to apologise for she and her husband being no-shows last Saturday. The barkeep, like the best of them, a social worker and bush psychologist, offers, ‘Yeah, well, it got to 6.30 and I thought — that’s unlike Marg and Blue (unsure at time of writing if this is flat-tyre Blue). Something must’ve cropped up.’

    Marg replies. ‘The afternoon just got away from us. I’m so sorry.’ For atonement, she then buys a can of coke (to take away). Relationship repaired. Although an elementary exchange, it spoke of the rural values of mutual dependence and traditional courtesy. I remembered the country communities in which I’d happily lived.

    Our week included visits to Lobethal, Mt Pleasant, Charleston. Palmer hadn’t been on the obvious itinerary — but then again, the best things often aren’t.

    We return to the car. I throw my scarf on the back seat.

    0

    Seven Small Thoughts from this Week

    |

    1. I love cooking a barbeque on our veranda, but I’m forming a view that July evenings are too cold for this optimism.

    2. I’m re-reading a book on the song ‘Wichita Lineman’ and still find it astonishing that it was written by Jimmy Webb when he was barely 22.

    3. I would enjoy running on the Glenelg North beach but because of the recent storms there isn’t really one. The sea has reclaimed what was briefly ours.

    4. This is a lovely billboard.

    5. Has anybody ever had a dream that began at the very beginning, and not part way through the story?

    6. I might buy a roll of film, take some photos, and get it developed. I almost hope one is accidentally of my shoes. I could use the honesty.

    7. Can anybody lend me an abacus?

      2

      Kapunda, Monday: A Drive Through the Quiet

      |

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

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

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

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

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

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

      *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      *

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

      0

      Running North Terrace

      |

      I’m jogging west along Adelaide’s most distinguished boulevard on this dazzling Sunday morning. Much of this street I’ve never explored.

      The footpath is wide and tree-lined, and the streets are hushed, empty. The warm weather’s more akin to October and not late May so I flip between viewing this as serene and approaching apocalypse. Claire had an Auslan interpreting job at the Lion Arts Factory — a burlesque dance competition — so we decamped to the Intercontinental (Hotel not a nuclear-armed ballistic missile).

      Next door, the Adelaide Convention Centre sprawls— so vast, Boeing could assemble planes in it. I enjoy it best at big events like the Cellar Door Festival when over splashes of red wine and among the Merlot-ed masses, Claire and I whisper in snug, secretive ways.

      I pass the medical precinct ­— towering, assured, glittering — on which I’ve never set foot. Formerly overlooking the railyards, it was the road to nowhere. Like much of our privileged world, its function has transitioned from industrial to knowledge, a Victorian badlands to a district of profound applied intellect.

      A duo of male joggers materialises. Relaxed with each other, they’re chatting comfortably. We exchange a chirpy round of, ‘Morning.’

      I cross the terrace at the Royal Adelaide Hospital. It’s among the most expensive buildings on the planet. With relief rather than pride, I nod at this thought. Nuclear plants, much of Singapore, and those futuristic Gulf state mirages, all sit higher up the list. Even the American football stadium at Inglewood, in LA, cost more (five billion) and yet much of it is (fake) grass. How could this be?

      The Newmarket Hotel stands silent, a ghost ship. Its legacy is to the nomenclature of glassware with the butcher, named for the small beer preferred by abattoir workers at lunchtimes. Where can we now find these 200ml tumblers? Maybe in lonely country pubs. Are these victims of the American (read: global) trend for upsizing?

      Peering in at a cluster of UniSA buildings, it’s another mysterious pocket of North Terrace, an architectural Siberia. The intriguingly named Elton Mayo building (a pianist and salad dressing hybrid) has an almost mocking confidence. One day, I should stroll in. He was a celebrated psychologist.

      Striding along now. The Oaks Horizon. We had a couple of stays there with my boys to explore the city. I wanted them to experience Adelaide’s cultural riches and investigated the Botanic Gardens, Museum, and Art Gallery. We also played mini-golf at Holey Moley near Hindmarsh Square. Education complete at the Pancake Kitchen.

      Red and blue flashing lights and my heart quickens. What? Why? A paused police car menaces a white SUV just by the Stamford Plaza. I amble through during that tense interlude when the car-of-interest stops and the pair of police alight — adjusting their belts, straightening their navy caps — and I imagine the driver’s halting, ‘Morning, Officer. Is there a problem?’ What has gone badly at breakfast on this Sunday?

      A convenience store window offers a super deal: two unlikely allies finally together — Farmers Union Iced Coffee and a ham and cheese croissant. I’m proud that South Australia is one place where Coke is outsold — Glasgow and its carbonated Irn-Bru being another. Bravo, iced coffee! Take that Paris! Take that Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré! Take that Atlanta!

      No traffic. Flouting the crossing light’s red man, I scurry over King William Road. I see solitary pedestrians, the homeless interrupted by dawn into forlorn, shuffling movement and I’m grateful for my fortune. Turning around at the former Botanic Hotel, there’s evocations of my untroubled university life. The building’s majestic, its raucousness now becalmed.

      With the sun on my face, the future technopolis of Lot 14 swims into view. It’s only hoardings and a barren block but could erupt suddenly, all dazzling glass and steel. Taking in the University of Adelaide and Bonython Hall’s honeyed façade, I’m reminded, not unjustly, of Bath and Oxford.

      This is a handsome boulevard.

      Kintore Avenue dips down to the River Torrens and hosts the State Library. I spent hours there at uni — the reading room’s newspapers (Ooh, there’s the Wagga News) and borrowing Steely Dan cassettes to play in my HQ Holden. The ease of shaping my days with leisure and study.

      Adelaide remains tranquil and I again spy the pair of male joggers. They’re still nattering and unbothered by exertion. It could be a pre-coffee pretense.

      The casino emerges. Australian cities have increasingly thorny relationships with these, and glamour has largely given way to wretchedness. Seeking dinner last night, Claire and I foolishly walked through one of its eateries. Glaring lights. Cafeteria tables. All the allure of a Soviet hospital. We declined.

      Adelaide Casino’s a boorish, puffed-up pokies barn. You could get in wearing double-plugger thongs. Nearly. It annexed the splendid Railway Station. But I remember being disgorged from the Gawler train in the 1980’s, heading to the one-day cricket and this rushes back to me, riotously. Eskies, flags, Adidas Romes. AB, whistling kegs, zinc.

      I jog on, buoyant, smiling at my younger self and his friends.

      Outside the Intercontinental’s an idling fire truck with Technical Rescue emblazoned on its side. Ignoring these blue and red lights, the hotel elevator then ejects me on the seventeenth floor.

      0

      Our Annual Pilgrimage to the Greenock Pub

      |

      Each of us studies the lunch menu like it’s a sacred text, applies some unnecessary critical thinking, and in succession — as anticipated — orders a schnitzel. It’s a collective declaration of mateship, and an acknowledgement of being deep into our sixth decade. Growing up in Kapunda, we’ve a lengthy and easy friendship.

      Outside’s blustery but we’re in the pub’s cosiness.

      With the dining room’s blazing fireplace, pot belly stove in the front bar, and rib-ticklers (for her pleasure) soliciting purchase in the toilet’s vending machines ($2 each) there’s still much that appeals. Happy groups are dotted about the tables amidst a humming Thursday ambience.

      In a world hurried by notifications, noise, and busyness, the Greenock pub resists performative velocity. Storytelling is our afternoon’s purpose and theme, and we’re now less about bedlam and more about meaning.

      Chris (Rohde) tells us of his recent trip to Europe and Berlin, of steins and asparagus, and staying a drop-punt from Checkpoint Charlie. Of Copenhagen and the Tivoli Gardens. We also hear more about Chris and Letitia Hayward’s golfing and post-golfing explorations of Ireland, Scotland and London. All described as, ‘magnificent.’  

      A photo shoot’s happening in the neighbouring anteroom, and I spy etched glassware filled with wine the colour of ox blood, arranged in a pretty tableau. A silver reflecting umbrella illuminates the human and vino talent, and I nod into my ale at the prospect of a glossy double-page spread. It’s as deserving as any pub. I wonder if there’s a magazine in Germany called Schnitzels Monthly.

      A log shifts in the fireplace, and there’s a scrape of cutlery. Easing my chair back, and with our beer rhythm wordlessly established, I fetch another pint of Coopers Draught for Lukey and a Pirate Life for me.

      Chris (Hayward) continues his animated observations. ‘We found a great pub in Soho, and I thought that’d be our local for the week. But then we came across another that was even better!’

      Our schnitzels arrive and these, too, are magnificent. Lukey says, ‘Good that everyone has a schnitzel. About time you all got with the programme.’ Pepper gravy sweetness wafts through the snug air along with the hot comfort of chips and steamed broccoli. These hearty plates — though probably not us — could star in the magazine shoot.

      Talk accelerates to footy and the upcoming Kapunda Bombers premiership reunions. Teams from 1965, 1985, and 2005 will gather in the club. With this comes the mandatory story of Lukey’s stratospheric hanger in the 1985 grand final. It was a colossal mark but the sole VHS tape of the game is lost. I can see the back-slapping, and hear the bellowing laughter erupting above the din of the Dutton Park clubrooms. That the 2025 Bombers are struggling won’t matter one bit.

      We consider relocating to the front bar but linger, preferring the stillness. I love how the Greenock pub is humbly and wilfully unrenovated. In middle life, competition yields to communion — and today and annually for us, this is a chapel. It hosts our companionship and remains a landscape for thought and gratitude.

      This annual lunch is where we reconnect with younger versions of ourselves, even as we sit with our shifting adult responsibilities. It’s also a place to remember who we were — teenagers piling into dusty Holdens blasting Midnight Oil —   and to marvel at how this whole scrappy, beautiful mess is turning out.