fish fingers, two potatoes, a carrot and half a tray of ice cubes. I put the fish things in the oven, stuck the vegetables on the gas to boil and dropped the ice into a glass on top of an antiseptic dose of Jamesons.
The whiskey was more warming than the tepid trickle that issued from the antique water heater on the bathroom wall. I lathered up and listened to the whining of the pipes. The whole room joined in, crying out to be transformed into an airy atrium lined with glass bricks and filled with moisture-loving plants. I finished my drink slowly, waiting for the water to run cold and wondering where I could get hold of a cheap roofer. This was one of the few times I ever wished I had friends in the building industry unions.
At the back of the bathroom cupboard behind a lonesome franger, its use-by date long expired, I found a bottle of mercurochrome and daubed red lines down the scratches on my ears, neck and face. As an omen of the pitfalls that were to confront me over the following three days, I can think of nothing more eloquent than the bedraggled zebra that resulted, staring back at me from my fog-misted bathroom mirror. Tetanus, cancer, involuntary celibacy, a hole in the roof. You name it, chances were I had it.
A couple of fish fingers, and Red’s memory came back. ‘Oh year, Mum said to tell you she’s been ringing everywhere but you’re never there. She said she’ll try again tomorrow. And guess what she’s bought me. A Dino-Rider. The one with laser weapons.’
Weapons? Apparently Canberra was doing nothing for Wendy’s ideological rigour. After dinner, a little convivial family viewing and the customary buggerising around, I finally managed to badger Red into bed. The week before he’d been content to read himself to sleep, but that night he wanted to be babied. Hard day at the office, I guessed.
He dragged a big picture book out of a batch that Wendy had brought home from a sale at the Equal Opportunity Resource Centre, earnest stuff with titles like Miranda Has Two Mummies and Yes, Raoul Is Different . Fortunately, that night’s choice was one of the less pedagogically strident. Folk Wisdom of the World’s Peoples was its eagerly redundant title. Red snuggled deeper under the quilt and I opened the book at random: ‘Of all of the wise men of Turkey none is more famous than Nasreddin Hoca...’
Above the text was a pen and wash picture of a tubby old man with a bushy white beard, curly slippers and a turban the size of a load of washing. Red nodded his approval and I read on.
One day Nasreddin Hoca was invited to give the sermon at the mosque in his village. He mounted the pulpit and asked, ‘O True Believers, do you know what I am going to say to you today?’ The congregation looked at each other in confusion and shook their heads. ‘We have no idea,’ they said. ‘If you have no idea,’ said Nasreddin Hoca, ‘what is the use of my talking to you?’ With that he descended from the pulpit and went home.
As I read, I glanced furtively down at the child’s face, seeking out hopeful signs of sleep’s imminent arrival.
The following week he entered the mosque, mounted the pulpit and again asked the congregation, ‘O True Believers, do you know what I am going to talk to you about today?’ ‘Yes,’ said the wily ones. ‘Well, if you already know,’ said Nasreddin Hoca, ‘what is the use of my telling you?’ And again he descended from the pulpit and went home. The next week he mounted the pulpit and asked the very same question. ‘O True Believers, do you know what I am going to talk to you about today?’ The people of the congregation had considered their reply. ‘Some of us do and some of us do not,’ they cried. ‘In that case,’ said Nasreddin Hoca, ‘let those of you who know tell those who do not.’
Christ only knew what a child was supposed to make of this drivel. It sounded like a Treasury position paper. Fortunately it also produced a similar effect. A muddy
The whiskey was more warming than the tepid trickle that issued from the antique water heater on the bathroom wall. I lathered up and listened to the whining of the pipes. The whole room joined in, crying out to be transformed into an airy atrium lined with glass bricks and filled with moisture-loving plants. I finished my drink slowly, waiting for the water to run cold and wondering where I could get hold of a cheap roofer. This was one of the few times I ever wished I had friends in the building industry unions.
At the back of the bathroom cupboard behind a lonesome franger, its use-by date long expired, I found a bottle of mercurochrome and daubed red lines down the scratches on my ears, neck and face. As an omen of the pitfalls that were to confront me over the following three days, I can think of nothing more eloquent than the bedraggled zebra that resulted, staring back at me from my fog-misted bathroom mirror. Tetanus, cancer, involuntary celibacy, a hole in the roof. You name it, chances were I had it.
A couple of fish fingers, and Red’s memory came back. ‘Oh year, Mum said to tell you she’s been ringing everywhere but you’re never there. She said she’ll try again tomorrow. And guess what she’s bought me. A Dino-Rider. The one with laser weapons.’
Weapons? Apparently Canberra was doing nothing for Wendy’s ideological rigour. After dinner, a little convivial family viewing and the customary buggerising around, I finally managed to badger Red into bed. The week before he’d been content to read himself to sleep, but that night he wanted to be babied. Hard day at the office, I guessed.
He dragged a big picture book out of a batch that Wendy had brought home from a sale at the Equal Opportunity Resource Centre, earnest stuff with titles like Miranda Has Two Mummies and Yes, Raoul Is Different . Fortunately, that night’s choice was one of the less pedagogically strident. Folk Wisdom of the World’s Peoples was its eagerly redundant title. Red snuggled deeper under the quilt and I opened the book at random: ‘Of all of the wise men of Turkey none is more famous than Nasreddin Hoca...’
Above the text was a pen and wash picture of a tubby old man with a bushy white beard, curly slippers and a turban the size of a load of washing. Red nodded his approval and I read on.
One day Nasreddin Hoca was invited to give the sermon at the mosque in his village. He mounted the pulpit and asked, ‘O True Believers, do you know what I am going to say to you today?’ The congregation looked at each other in confusion and shook their heads. ‘We have no idea,’ they said. ‘If you have no idea,’ said Nasreddin Hoca, ‘what is the use of my talking to you?’ With that he descended from the pulpit and went home.
As I read, I glanced furtively down at the child’s face, seeking out hopeful signs of sleep’s imminent arrival.
The following week he entered the mosque, mounted the pulpit and again asked the congregation, ‘O True Believers, do you know what I am going to talk to you about today?’ ‘Yes,’ said the wily ones. ‘Well, if you already know,’ said Nasreddin Hoca, ‘what is the use of my telling you?’ And again he descended from the pulpit and went home. The next week he mounted the pulpit and asked the very same question. ‘O True Believers, do you know what I am going to talk to you about today?’ The people of the congregation had considered their reply. ‘Some of us do and some of us do not,’ they cried. ‘In that case,’ said Nasreddin Hoca, ‘let those of you who know tell those who do not.’
Christ only knew what a child was supposed to make of this drivel. It sounded like a Treasury position paper. Fortunately it also produced a similar effect. A muddy
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