As I get older,I become more aware of the importance of rituals. My small joy is lining up at the coffee machine at my regular petrol station for a $2 cup.
A goatee might work if you’re a French painter in the late 19th century. But on me,I looked like a bad tailor compensating for the loss of hair on my head.
In 2004,we moved into Reservoir,a migrant working-class suburb. Back then,it was all lemon trees,grapevines,and houses with big front yards. Today,it’s a suburb full of townhouses that sell just under an icy million each.
I was 13 when my uncle Harry brought home a lamb for Easter. All the cousins thought Lamby was a great pet. One day in Holy Week,Lamby was no longer there.
In 1986,my first adult post-uni sabbatical to Athens,the border guard at the airport looked at my passport and asked in English,“Do you speak Greek?” “No,” I lied. He laughed,then called out in Greek to a colleague,“Ela (come) look at this guy’s surname.”
For years I vowed to never ever wear one of those horrid little doonas. This a fall from grace. What next,socks and sandals?
Tradies and their partners,accountants,car salespeople,mortgage brokers and retail workers now sport uber-whites,often matched with permanently startled expressions.
I set off one Monday morning with my son’s P-plates still displayed and suddenly found the road a very different place.