creations wafted past her in the lobby bar . . . the sort of incandescent green crimplenes and electric fuchsia Treviras still much in evidence four years later at the Melbourne Cup.
‘Mon Dieu!’ she exclaimed finally, a Parisian resident truly rattled by this insouciant Aussie mix ’n’ match, by this generalised
laissez-aller vestimentaire.
‘]e sais que pas tout le monde peut s’habiller chez Céline, mais entre ça, et ce que je vois la, ma fille, il y a un monde . . . UN MONDE.’ (I know we can’t all dress at Céline, but between Céline and THAT – a world of difference, my dear, a world.)
Despite her initial shock at some of the more casual aspects of Australian life, however, Jeanette fell deeply in love with the place, and comes back to Australia every year on an annual pilgrimage from Paris. Far more sympathetic perhaps, the laid-back Aussies, than the uptight French.
Such were the thoughts of fun times shared, and dear friends sorely missed, as I descended on the Sheraton-Perth Hotel. The team arrived a few hours later, having won the rain-affected fixture at Kalgoorlie. A sepia-tinted turn-of-the-century photograph of the Kalgoorlie cricket team shows the umpire carrying a shotgun, an eloquent indication, perhaps, of the type of behaviour prevalent on the field in those days. Civilisation, by all accounts, has taken a tighter grip on the place now, and the town council is even trying to clean up the notorious image of the place as a gold-mining town studded with tin-shack whorehouses. Business is apparently still thriving in both fields of activity, and it takes the ladies of the night no more than a year to eighteen months to earn enough loot to up and off on the compulsory overseas tour. The council has currently taken to bulldozing down these rather tacky brothels, though graciously they do forewarn the inmates and their clients. Who knows, otherwise, how many other eminent persons might be inadvertently caught with their pants down? It does seem a shame though that such a celebrated tourist attraction should be so summarily flattened . . . sort of thing the old Greater London Council (God rest its soul) would slap a preservation order on . . . probably even give a grant to as well . . .
Phil had been twelfth-man for the match, and so had taken the opportunity to visit a gold mine. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? In fairness, he did bring me back a gold nugget for the much-vaunted wedding anniversary. Nothing to get hysterical about, girls, it was hardly a boulder, but I suppose I can have it made up into something suitably gaudy and crass if we stop off in Hong Kong on our way back. In fact, I am given to believe that Phil actually has some small interest in the opencast mine he visited. When I say small, it is probably nugatory, but who cares if I have got the one nugget? Anyway, be the interest large or small, I always wanted a husband who owns a gold mine.
Perth, at the moment, is vibrant, seething with excitement over the America’s Cup, which is being bitterly contested up the coast in Fremantle. Even those of you who know little of this somewhat esoteric, rich man’s sport of twelve-metre yacht racing will nevertheless recall the tremendous national jubilation surrounding Australia’s victory over the Americans at Newport in 1983. Self-made Pom-done-good-Perth-multimillionaire Alan Bond and the crew of
Australia II
did the impossible in capturing the Auld Mug (as the priceless Garrard’s trophy is affectionately called), from the United States, after the Americans’ 132 years’ dominance in the competition. The Bond syndicate employed genius Ben Lexcen to design the boat, with its radical winged keel, and no expense was spared on sailmakers, sports psychologists and technical back-up staff in an effort to guarantee success over the man many people still believe to be the best twelve-metre sailor in the world, maestro skipper Dennis Conner, and his ‘Red
‘Mon Dieu!’ she exclaimed finally, a Parisian resident truly rattled by this insouciant Aussie mix ’n’ match, by this generalised
laissez-aller vestimentaire.
‘]e sais que pas tout le monde peut s’habiller chez Céline, mais entre ça, et ce que je vois la, ma fille, il y a un monde . . . UN MONDE.’ (I know we can’t all dress at Céline, but between Céline and THAT – a world of difference, my dear, a world.)
Despite her initial shock at some of the more casual aspects of Australian life, however, Jeanette fell deeply in love with the place, and comes back to Australia every year on an annual pilgrimage from Paris. Far more sympathetic perhaps, the laid-back Aussies, than the uptight French.
Such were the thoughts of fun times shared, and dear friends sorely missed, as I descended on the Sheraton-Perth Hotel. The team arrived a few hours later, having won the rain-affected fixture at Kalgoorlie. A sepia-tinted turn-of-the-century photograph of the Kalgoorlie cricket team shows the umpire carrying a shotgun, an eloquent indication, perhaps, of the type of behaviour prevalent on the field in those days. Civilisation, by all accounts, has taken a tighter grip on the place now, and the town council is even trying to clean up the notorious image of the place as a gold-mining town studded with tin-shack whorehouses. Business is apparently still thriving in both fields of activity, and it takes the ladies of the night no more than a year to eighteen months to earn enough loot to up and off on the compulsory overseas tour. The council has currently taken to bulldozing down these rather tacky brothels, though graciously they do forewarn the inmates and their clients. Who knows, otherwise, how many other eminent persons might be inadvertently caught with their pants down? It does seem a shame though that such a celebrated tourist attraction should be so summarily flattened . . . sort of thing the old Greater London Council (God rest its soul) would slap a preservation order on . . . probably even give a grant to as well . . .
Phil had been twelfth-man for the match, and so had taken the opportunity to visit a gold mine. Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? In fairness, he did bring me back a gold nugget for the much-vaunted wedding anniversary. Nothing to get hysterical about, girls, it was hardly a boulder, but I suppose I can have it made up into something suitably gaudy and crass if we stop off in Hong Kong on our way back. In fact, I am given to believe that Phil actually has some small interest in the opencast mine he visited. When I say small, it is probably nugatory, but who cares if I have got the one nugget? Anyway, be the interest large or small, I always wanted a husband who owns a gold mine.
Perth, at the moment, is vibrant, seething with excitement over the America’s Cup, which is being bitterly contested up the coast in Fremantle. Even those of you who know little of this somewhat esoteric, rich man’s sport of twelve-metre yacht racing will nevertheless recall the tremendous national jubilation surrounding Australia’s victory over the Americans at Newport in 1983. Self-made Pom-done-good-Perth-multimillionaire Alan Bond and the crew of
Australia II
did the impossible in capturing the Auld Mug (as the priceless Garrard’s trophy is affectionately called), from the United States, after the Americans’ 132 years’ dominance in the competition. The Bond syndicate employed genius Ben Lexcen to design the boat, with its radical winged keel, and no expense was spared on sailmakers, sports psychologists and technical back-up staff in an effort to guarantee success over the man many people still believe to be the best twelve-metre sailor in the world, maestro skipper Dennis Conner, and his ‘Red
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