Some links to 'Good Weekend' Magazine Stories, 'Age' columns and Other Articles

I was driving behind a guy on a bike the other day. He was wearing a matching pair of lurid green socks and shoes. A wave of envy washed over me. Perhaps I could get myself... No. Not going to happen. I looked again at the cyclist: smart outfit; form-fitting. Flash bicycle: sleek, aerodynamically sound. Put together, nothing like me when I’m the guy on the bike.

There are people who occasionally ride bikes. And then there are cyclists. They are the ones now staying up late to watch TV coverage of the Tour de France, which concludes in Paris next weekend. Many Tour watchers also rise early in the morning, don their iridescent socks and shoes, and meet up with others to form their own peloton and pedal vigorously for an hour or so.

I know some of these Tourists. One man, who should stay anonymous, took possession of a custom-made imported-from-Italy bicycle when his wife was out of town. He took a photo of himself alongside the gleaming machine on the marital bed. True romance. When he first showed off his new love to pals in the peloton, a fellow rider asked if he knew that the Italian mob had just come up with an even newer design. That first fine careless rapture started to ebb away. Behind the perfume of chain oil was a faint whiff of obsolescence.

So it goes with flings. Passion cools. I’m more committed. My bike is around 23 years old. It still has on its frame a repair sticker from a cycle shop on the other side of the world. This is not a bedroom bike. But it is faithful and does all I ask of it, which isn’t much. Tourists would shudder to see it has an old-style luggage rack over the back wheel. Useful for carrying stuff.

When it needs repairs I apologise to the local bike bloke for lowering the tone of his shop, which has thousand-dollar models in the front window. He’s very understanding, like the vet asked to trim the toenails of an old and ugly dog. But there are advantages to having a utilitarian bike. I haven’t locked it up for years. It’s not going to tempt anyone with light fingers. Possibly because they’d soon discover it’s rather heavy. Tourists speak reverently of their featherweight cycles. Mine’s more Dumbo than downy.

Also large. When dismounting recently I managed to topple over. Hit the saddle (or something) with a swinging foot and down we went. I mentioned this to the man who once took his bike to bed. He looked incredulous. But was too polite to say this never happens to guys with lurid green socks and shoes.

There and Back Again

(First published in The Sunday Age, 30 October 2016)

Wednesday morning at the local beach. The dog runs ahead. Storms have left seaweed and rubbish on the sand: plastic bags, a single child’s shoe, a baby’s dummy and other flotsam harder to identify. In the shallows, rocked back and forth by waves, is a hefty piece of driftwood glowing gold in the sun. Hmm, could look good somewhere in the garden... I decide to leave it be, then see if it’s still there when I return.

I’m not usually a beachcomber. I roll my eyes at metal-detector people. But today, well, there’s just so much stuff washed up by the wild weather. I pocket a mother-of-pearl shell, wonder how heavy that bit of driftwood might be, keep walking and then spot something long and pink in a pile of weed. It’s a sizeable plastic spade with a decent blade and handle. Bigger than you’d expect if it were part of a junior gardening set.

I don’t stop, though I reckon I could find a use for it. Maybe prop it up alongside the compost bin, ready to dole out dollops of worm-wriggling earth. Again, all depends on whether it’s still there when I come back. Let fate determine the outcome. But sometimes fate needs a nudge. Perhaps I move along a bit quicker, call the dog back before we’ve reached the customary turnaround spot. Accompanying my shell are thoughts of uses for the other things.

And they’re still there. The long-handled spade feels reassuringly sturdy when I extricate it from the weed; the driftwood can be hoisted with one hand. Back in the car, the bemused dog shares a seat with other smelly, sandy stuff.

At home, the driftwood finds a spot by a blooming daisy. The shell goes on a windowsill. The spade needs cleaning. The weed won’t all be washed away. It clings blackly to one side of the handle. Then I realise it’s writing, not weed. PLEASE LEAVE THIS ON BEACH FOR KIDS TO USE. My first impulse is to ignore this. Screw you! Finders keepers. Maybe it was swept in from another beach altogether... But I don’t fool myself. This is a clear and polite request. I will ignore it at my peril; fall victim to a weird kiddy curse.

Thursday morning. I prop the pink spade in a prominent spot not far from where I found it on the beach. Will countless children play with it, wondering about its provenance? I don’t know. It’s now out of my hands.

Friday morning. Gone.

The Space Left Behind

(First published in The Sunday Age, 2 October 2016)

Another one gone... When I notice that a residential block has been cleared I often realise I can’t remember what’s been demolished. Was it the place with the weird chimneys? One storey – two? It bothers me when this happens. Does it prove I live life in a daze? Or is it just a twist on the old Joni Mitchell line – maybe you don’t know what you’ve got even after it’s gone.

But this time I knew. The cream brick house just around the corner. A friendly old lady lived there. A gardener. I’d often see her when I passed by, moving pots around, planting geranium cuttings, keeping busy on her patch. It was never a ‘Home Beautiful’ garden, but there was a lot of love there. We’d exchange smiles, some chat about the weather, and on I’d go.

Then she was gone. Vanished. A while back, this house started to look abandoned. The blinds were down. Junk mail spilled from the letterbox. Weeds took over the garden, encouraged by rain. I knew what this signified, though there was never an Auction or For Sale sign with the dread words ‘Deceased Estate’. The place was empty, lifeless, the geraniums let go. Late last month, a wire fence went up out the front. Parked on the old driveway, like a dog too big for its backyard, was one of those house-munching machines that eat walls and ceilings and struts as if they were gingerbread.

When I next went past, just a few days later, the machine was gone. So was the house. Every last cream brick had been taken away. The garden had been cleared to the fence line. All that remained, down the back, were two small trees – one of which was defiantly in bloom – and three empty rubbish bins neatly lined up down the side. Where a life had been lived there was just an expanse of grey dirt.

I hear this is a trend in urban development. “Knockdown houses,” they’re called. People buy a property so they can tear it down and start from scratch. Or perhaps, as has taken place a few doors along from the old gardener’s property, turn a block into a tennis court. But it’s hard to erase all signs of life. I was pleased to see, last week, some things left behind on the nature-strip. A planter trellis. One large pot. And, quite at home around a tree, a cheerful ring of geraniums.

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