AN ORDINARY DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN ORDINARY MAN BY COLIN COLLINS

Cover Photo by Dave Collins

May 2011

INTRODUCTION All characters in this work are not fictional. They are real. If any of these real persons do not like what I have said about them, they should not sue me. I have no money. Unless, of course, a considerable number of people are foolish enough to read what I have written. In that event they can call me. I am in the phone book. If, however, some person who has been mentioned in the book derives pecuniary gain from this slender volume, then they should think of donating a modest portion of their earnings to: An Ordinary Company of Ordinary People Ltd. This company has not been formed as the book has not yet been published. Which it is not very likely to be. I have heard that agents for book publishers are told that when going to a party they are told to keep their arms pressed firmly to their sides so that would-be authors are unable to slip manuscripts under their arms. This, too, is a true story. Most characters in this book are both ordinary and exciting. Much of their lives are lived on a fairly level plain. But we all need excitement, change. The most common form of excitement is going on holiday. For family folk and older people, a trip up or down the coast will do. For the younger ones, a trip overseas is de rigueur. For some, extreme sports are the only way. Or becoming a revolutionary. Or selling all that one has and going to live in the slums of Mumbai or Mexico City. Too much ordinariness and we become dead ducks. Too much excitement and we have heart attacks so, we develop a ying-yan rhythm. As we can’t always be one or the other we need to find a way of infusing the ordinary with excitement. We need to inject excitement into the ordinary. We have to freeze the moment into a particularity. A quick snapshot of 12 ducks forlornly looking across the river (you will meet them soon). The smile of a passer-by, the shape of a special frangipani. Then move on. The photo in the mind freezes for a millisecond what you have seen. Then all moves on. And so it goes. Still and move. Calm and excitement. Ying and yan. All of life is like that. Try it. By the way, this slender volume, if ever published is not to be put into the Self Help section. If anywhere, it is to be placed in the Children’s section. Like St Exupery’s Little Prince. Not that I would dare to compare myself with the Little Prince. I am just an ordinary bloke living an ordinary day. This book is dedicated to my grand-daughter, Lucia. May a small portion of my past flow into her future. I love her so. Children see everything for the first time. So should we. The name Lucia means Light. Lucia was the Roman goddess who was the destroyer of all cruelty. Our Lucia is going to have a busy life.

But, gradually, the Glances increased and The body moved Around Until one day I Noticed that I was Walking – backwards, Looking mostly at the past, With scarcely a glance at The future. How strange, I thought. But, as my feet Started to sink Beneath the horizon. There was a pleasant Surprise. I could see the sky, Pink-azure and So very gentle. And, as I slid Below the hills, No-one noticed my last Smile. All that was left Was the gentle-coloured Sky. The memories that Others have – of Me. TOCK! And so that day – May 17 2011 – life in New Farm came to an end. Adieu, my friends. Adieu!

One day, many years Ago. I peeped over the Horizon. At first, I knew nothing. But then, as I grew In strength and knowledge. I looked forward to the future. Each day was a new day But soon I left the dewy Trails of my own dawn Behind. And rose in the sky Of my own personhood. I learned to work, to play, To love, to laugh and to Cry (but not too Much of that) But, always, I looked Forward And did not notice The tick-tock in My own life. Fixed on the high point Of my life, Time went unnoticed. My face was always set toward The future. No tick-tock for me, Just what might be But, almost suddenly, The peak-point had comeAnd gone. Oh yes, I was, at first, Graceful about it. No slippery slide into My own sunset. But a curious thing Did happen. As I slid into the afternoon of my life. I started to lookNot so much at the Future but at what had Passed. At first it was only an Occasional glance. The body posture was Still facing onwards.

12 midnight to 5.30am This is what I recorded in my diary on November 30 2010 as the Day in the Life of an Ordinary Man. Walk by the River Breakfast Shower, shave and sundries Physio T and lunch with X Siesta T at Café Bouquiniste Meeting at the New Farm Neighbourhood Centre (walked there and back) Swim in Glenfalloch pool Prepare supper, eat and watch news Go to bed and read a book Switch off light and go to sleep. Now what could be more ordinary than that? Or so I thought then and for a long time afterwards. While I was having my siesta (a noble custom) yesterday, many thoughts came tumbling into my semi sleepy consciousness telling me that I ought to elaborate on such a simplistic framework. So, here I am today doing exactly that. Most of us live very ordinary lives, especially as we get older, which does not allow us to see the intricate patterns in the ordinary. So, let’s go to work. Tuesday, May 17, 2011 is not a terribly unusual day as we shall see. But it did not start at 5.30am. It started at midnight as the electric clock clicked onto 12.00. By the way, as a child I was really scared of midnight. As the clock – we had a large clock in my home – struck 12 times, I hid under the blankets as the last chime died away and waited in dread. I wish the reader to know that I don’t do this anymore. Midnight holds no fears for me. But there are other happenings between 12.00 and 5.30am. First of all, I sleep. Now, even from my own unscientific background, I realise that there are many different kinds of sleep. One can go into very light sleep in which one doesn’t really know whether one is asleep or awake. But even in this light sleep, time passes quickly and one is amazed when one surfaces. Then there is the medium deep sleep from which one awakens swiftly if, for example, there is an unusual noise or if, God forbid, one’s kitchen catches fire and the smoke alarm, unchecked as is my wont, does not go off. Then there is the very deep sleep, the one that we all aspire to. Now I am not sure that one needs this very deep sleep in order to undergo the second stage during the night. These are dreams and I am more inclined to think that dreams occur when one is waking up. What is quite amazing is that dreams seem to take a long time whereas in fact they sometimes take no longer than a split second.

No matter. Last night I had two dream sequences. By the way, I almost always dream and they are quite fun. I once knew a man whose name was Lucky and who owned a restaurant in Fortitude Valley. He had amazing dreams and he used to catalogue them and associate them with all sorts of symbols. I don’t think my dreams are as complex as his, though I realise that to understand dreams one has to ask what kind of feeling dominates one when awakened. Anyway, I had two dreams last night. The first involved sex. Now, before any of you stop reading at this point, I want to state quite categorically that in this short work, I am not going into the whole question of sex. I realise that it dominates the lives of some people but it certainly does not dominate mine. Not that I am a purist. But as one grows older, sex becomes less and less important and becomes part of a much larger picture. But this would take us away from the topic under discussion which is a day in the life of an ordinary man (I make no apologies for the use of the word ‘man’ here as I am a man and, in case you have doubts whether I am a misogynist, ask some of my women friends). In any case, I don’t want to get you excited before you have accompanied me on my morning walk. The second dream involved the church, in this case, the Catholic Church. You see, I used to be a Catholic Priest in South Africa for over 20 years and as I get older I have lots of dreams about the Church (and about sex and other matters as well). In this particular dream I was the Bishop of the Diocese of Port Elizabeth. PE, as it is known, is a city in the Cape Province in the southern area of South Africa. Most of the priests in that diocese came from Ireland and I was one of the first South Africans to become a priest. The reason for this was that the old Bishop there did not believe that anyone except the Irish could become priests. Maybe he was right. He didn’t know at that point that my maternal grandfather was Irish. To get back to the dream. I had become the Bishop of PE. Incidentally, I was told while working for the Vatican representative in South Africa that if I kept my nose clean, the bishopric was mine for the asking. Needless to say, I didn’t keep my nose clean, or for that matter, other parts of my body. Hence I never got anywhere in the upper echelons of the church. During this church dream, I was the Bishop but with a difference. I was a democratic Bishop. Now anyone who knows anything about the Catholic Church would know that the word ‘democracy’ sends shivers down the spine of the ecclesiastical bureaucracy. But there I was trying to be democratic with my priests. I must say the younger ones took to it whereas the older ones did not. Suffice to say, had the dream gone on, I would have been banished forever as has the Bishop of Toowoomba recently. After all, like him, I was opening up issues such as birth control, gay rights, married and, yes, even female priests. Anyway it was a fun dream and I woke up feeling happy. I should mention that in my dreams I always try to fix up the things that I did wrong in my past life. Nasty bit of guilt I suppose.

But I will conclude with this poem, which I wrote in 1996.

TICK! I sit on the beach And watch the Sun come up Its presence is announced by the softening of the darkness. As the air becomes rosy, warm, translucent. Then it peeps over the straight line of the now blue-blue sea Its warmth shaking the feathers of the brooding seagulls. And all too soon it is Out and about. No longer red-yellow But a see-through orb With rays like hazy Clouds of white-heat. Then it is straight overhead, Beating down with all its Strength And sending humans And animals scurrying For the shade, a place To hide. But no sooner has it Reached its highest peak It starts its majestic Descent to the western hills. Soon, it grows larger and, Surprisingly, cooler. As it sinks into the hills It reddens and seems to sigh. As it disappears in a last Flash of red, Take a look at where It started its journey. The sky will be Pink-azure, soft and So very gentle. A last gift from the Fiery monster.

Child. For we really do know next to nothing About it all. Erotic love, A feel for the body that leads into Every aspect of life, of love, of oneself, One’s loved ones, ones friends and those in Need. My children, Whose roots, being in the Mundane Make the most trivial meaningful, Even though it sometimes hurts. A passion for justice. For although I cannot love all, I can still love a few and still believe And work for a better world. Which, despite many failures, Has many successes. An appointment with death. For so many that I have loved Have died. And so many others all over the World Seem to die in meaningless ways. And for me, I have always felt a Destiny with death which as it comes Closer I care less about. If my own passing is to end in Darkness Then I know that I have left faint Footprints In the sand Which are even now being Gently erased by wind and Sea. But, if my own passing is to end In a Great White Light, Then I will stand naked in that Light And all my small acts, some good And many not so good That have made up my own Personal history will be added To that INEXPLICABLE BRIGHTNESSS OF BEING.

I should also mention that I have to pee two or three times during the night. Older men would understand this. When this happens and I return to bed I listen to the radio. If there is talking rather than music, it puts me to sleep, which might say something about the quality of the radio programs at night. I got up a little late this morning ie 5:55am. I got dressed and went for my usual walk. The sun had not yet emerged but it was fairly light. The show was about to begin.

5:30 – 8:30 My walk is simple enough. I go out of the back of Glenfalloch around the now impossibly cold swimming pool and through the back gate. Trying not to look at the failed City Cycle bikes all lined up in their splendid best, I walk briskly along the pathway which skirts the river and is known as Merthyr Park. This park is roughly U shaped and comes back onto Oxlade Drive at the Merthyr Park Bowls Club. This club saves itself from going broke by allowing Barefoot Bowls on its greens. After a short distance along the rest of Oxlade Drive, one reaches the beautiful New Farm Park. I do not walk around the full circular drive but instead follow the drive on the riverside until I reach the steps leading down to the river. After walking up and down the 17 steps six times I go down to the river where I do 15 semi push ups on the railing. I then run for a short distance and take the same trajectory back to Glenfalloch. All this takes me about 45 minutes. I do this walk virtually everyday. I may point out that this walk is very exciting if one chooses to make it so. And, unlike Imannuel Kant who, it is said, walked daily down the same street at the exact time so that people set their watches on his approach, I walk when I wake up. Hence my time varies from about 5am to 6am. What make this meander so exciting? The people, the birds and what I do. Firstly the people. Before describing the people I must warn the reader that although I am pretty hopeless at maths, I do tend to quantify most things. I have no idea why I do this. I count the steps that I take, I count the numbers of people that pass me, I count the amount of time I spend doing this or that. I am acutely aware of time. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I know to within a few minutes what the time is. My body has a clock in it. So also with direction. I always am aware of where north, south, east and west are. I am a homing pigeon. The only city in the world that confuses me is Venice because it has no tall buildings and no straight streets, streets and waterways being in the shape of a large snail. Hence if I lose my way, I really do and have not sufficient intuition to help me find my way home. It is the same with temperature. I can usually state what the temperature of the water is when I go for a swim. I can also tell the temperature of the air to within a degree. In fact, I am a bore because I am usually right in relation to direction, temperature and distance. My body clock, a thermometer and a GPS. This annoys my female companions enormously. Actually they tell me I have quite a nice body for my age- which is 83 - but this admiration fades when old Mr Know All makes statements about any of the above.

An out of body experience of the Blinding light which showed me the Irrelevance of most things, including Heaven and hell. Dispossession. When I was young, we pushed them off the Pavement Because they were Inferior Then I discovered, in the seminary That they were people. When I was among them later I saw that they lived in Tin hovels that were much worse than my Small home And that their health was bad And that many of them were Starving. And when I went to jail Or was raided by the police It was nothing compared to their Beatings and jailings and deaths. When they killed my friend, Steve Biko, I cried. I was not a hero. I was terrified. The oppressed were hopeful. And now, in my country they have Won. All these people and experiences Made me what I am. As the experience widened and deepened, The Sacred Heart became the Cosmic Christ. Then the Situational Christ and eventually the Agnostic Christ, a concerned human Wondering where god had gone. As he said as he died on the cross. Which brings me to my present beliefs. THE PRESENT.

It gets worse. I categorise things. For example, on my morning walk, I count how many men as opposed to women pass me.

What I have now is:

The ratio is about 1.43 women to one man. I count how many are running and how many are walking. About 1.67 walkers to one runner. Also, when runners come up on me from behind I try to work out whether they are men or women. I am wrong when there is a heavy woman or a light man.

Awe and wonder For the immensity of space and the Stars. For the individual cell, the molecule, the

In all its textures and shades and A passion for justice remained. GAINING HUMANITY. People and events made me What I now am. They made me and I sometimes Changed them They made me, brought about my Renaissance My own personal humanity. In the main, these were. My parents. From my mother a kindness. From my father, A sensuality, and a being in touch with Roughness in life. Diego. A rounded Franciscan who gave me Not only the Cosmic Christ but also a Love for art, literature, music and Dance (though I do not!). Two women Who gave me their love and Themselves, Who taught me about sensuality and Sexuality, about how to Touch and to feel. Who taught me the meaning of a Full relationship that went beyond Rationality and comradeship and into the Joy of being in love. Death. The death of my father and mother Unwitnessed and unannounced Which made me profoundly sad And with a sense of Unfinished business. Bringing back a person to life An experience that told me that I was not important.

I also note their shape, size and the clothes they wear. Also the expression they have. Runners look so very very concentrated whereas walkers are more relaxed. I must admit that most of the walkers have things stuck in their ears instead of enjoying the wonderful air and scenery. Or perhaps counting the passers-by. Actually I should point out that when I was working at Queensland University, I would always walk while preparing my lectures. Firstly, I would think about the subject and jot down a few points. I would then take these points for a walk. By the time I had walked them two or three times, they would be perfect. I never ever read from notes but always from memory honed on the walks. Perhaps that is why I do not like things stuck in people’s ears. Especially the young ones. Oh, and by the way, cyclists do not count, especially those on the dreadful ones provided at a cost by City Cycle. They almost run one over in any case. The considerate ones stick to Oxlade Drive. Another feature of the walk is the greetings. There are various kinds of greetings. Going up the scale there is the grimace, the uplifting of the corners of the mouth, the showing of the teeth, the smile, the verbal greeting and then, best of all, the short conversation. I have made many friends along the walk, especially those in Merthyr Park. Two or three stand out. There is the surgeon who throws a frisbee to this lovely collie dog. Then there is the Little Running Lady to be greeted either by her name or as Gorgeous, which her husband tells me, she probably likes. Unfortunately such friends come and go. They are acquaintances rather than friends. Many of them have dogs. More of that later. So much for the people on the walk. Then there are the birds. Most of the birds on the walk, except for the crows which are pretty ubiquitous, are located around the Moreton Bay fig situated about half way along the river walk. Other than the crows, there are ducks, seagulls, pigeons, and ibis. I suspect they gather in fairly amicable company because someone feeds them there. The competition that I have with myself is to guess how many birds there will be there and what type they will be. This morning there are only ducks, 12 of them sitting looking mournfully across the river. Perhaps they were thinking about the food that had not yet arrived or about sex with someone else’s partner. I really don’t know anything about the sex lives of ducks and I won’t attempt to discuss it here for fear of offending the sensitivity of the reader. But I should mention that I am very competitive about all these walkers. That competition is against myself. For example, depending on what time I am walking (the peak hour for walkers is about 6am) the competition is to guess how any walkers will pass me in both directions before I get back. This is a compulsive habit stemming from my childhood. For example while walking home from Mass in my hometown in South Africa, King Williams Town, the

noise of an approaching car would get me into betting with myself that I could walk across 10 paving stones before the car passed me. No running of course. Very exciting. And of course, the almost universal rule that the lines between the pavers were not to be trodden on.

Of non faith. For me my history has been a Gaining of my own Humanness.

I must confess to another childhood game. Walking along the beach at Kidds Beach, the boyhood beach of my dreams in South Africa, I was not allowed to have my feet in any approaching wave. Reason? The sea was made of acid! The fantasies that follow one through life.

LOSS OF FAITH.

Some last comments about THE WALK. As you may have noticed this morning walk occupies a pivotal part of my life. First of all, I walk and only run about 100 meters several times. I used to alternate these 100 meters when walking at Moffat Beach, Caloundra where we had a family cottage for many years. We brought up our children, David and Sarah there until they tired of it in their teens. I also swing my arms around in circular movements. This is a leftover from rehab after a quadruple heart bypass some 16 years ago. That was the first exercise I was allowed. I have already mentioned the push-ups, 15 at the turnaround point in the park and 15 more at the noughts and crosses kid’s play thing near Glenfalloch. There I end up by rearranging the Os and Xs in patterns. Then there is the weather which affects the walk. Hot or cold. Sunshine or rain. Recently even the planets were aligned! And then there are the buses which roar past, the 196 and 197. And the Virgin Airline planes which come over at about 6:15. All this makes me seem an awfully boring person just like Mr Kant. But I really don’t think I am . Disciplined, yes. Anal retentive, I don’t think so. Unlike a friend of mine, an ex-colleague at the University of Queensland who resembled Mr Kant in his punctuality. He could be found any Friday morning at 9:38 under the frozen groceries at Coles in Indooroopilly Shopping Centre. But I do have the same breakfast every morning. I really have a simple breakfast. But it was not always so. It was sufficient when I was a teenager in my home town. King Williams Town was once the Capital of British Kaffraria, the border state between white settlers and what were known as the black hordes. Not that they were called that. The worst name, Kaffirs, was given to them which is the Arab word for “infidel”. You see, the Arabs had ventured far down the east of Africa and had they conquered the continent, historical events may have been very different. After all, Greek culture came into the so called west via the Arab empire which stretched across the northern parts of Africa even occupying most of Spain for 700 years. That is why when I last went to Spain three years ago with my Canadian friend Yaga, I went to Andalusia which is the southern bit of Spain and where the three monotheistic religions lived in relative harmony for many centuries. But I digress. Many of my digressions will be of an historical nature. Watch out for them. Back to Breakfast.

There were four stages to this. The Sacred Heart stage when God was seen through the picture of Jesus over my parent’s bed. The church was known by its Laws and regulations. DO NOT! Confession was the bad angel In my life because it meant Guilt for the most trivial offences. Communion was the good angel Because it meant taking god into one’s Mouth and being which brought Warmth and care The Cosmic Christ when Christ was the centre of one’s life, The Word, the God-Man. Present in the whole of Reality, Transforming it through the Actions of people who belonged to His kingdom and in which The Church was the Mystical Body of Christ and we were all in it and LOVE was the most important Virtue of all. The Situational Christ in which A fluid, moving Christ, No longer shackled to a Church structure or even an Historical personality, Was present in events, In struggles and in Social situations. The agnostic One in which An awe and respect of the Unknown was constantly Present. Life was being experienced

Exile. Lost a country. Gained a family. Freedom. My country freed. Life in another.

When I was a teenager I used to have two fried eggs for breakfast. I would fry them myself, an unusual event for a white lad as the cooking in the house was usually done by the black girl. Now this ‘girl’ may well be 60 years old but we used to call black people ‘girls’ and ‘boys’, but only if they worked for us. The rest of the black population were called ‘Kaffirs’, which wasn’t very nice. We were so up ourselves that when the black people would not get off the pavement when we were walking on it, we got very angry. Also we thought blacks smelt badly and used to make very nasty comments about that. Which, once again, wasn’t very nice.

2000. Flight. Children and wife lost,. A tortuous time. 2010. Time to Go? In short, I was brought up in a Conventional catholic family With six children in South Africa. I became a priest because I knew I had a vocation to do so. Twenty years after ordination I had become an agnostic socialist Locked into the liberation struggle With the black peoples of that place. Today, I am a concerned agnostic Still anguished by being in Exile But completed by being with a Loved person and Two great children. This evolution has been brought about By a mix of persons and events, Of environments and happenings I have been made by them and, in turn Changed them. Such is my history. For some, my history has been a Long slide down the slippery path

Black servants used to live in little rooms separated from the main house. They did not have washing facilities. No wonder they had body odour. Much later when I was a priest I used to work with black students and teachers. I was amazed to discover that they were much cleaner than the whites who, in the 1960s thought it was de rigueur to be at least a little dirty. Even deodorants were out. I grew up with a whole package of racist attitudes. These were to receive a severe blow when I went to the seminary in 1945 to train for the priesthood. While doing theology in Pietermaritzburg with the Oblates (of Mary Immaculate) both black and so called coloured students were in the seminary. And they had the same education I had. What a surprise! That was the beginning of my education in the world of anti-racist struggle. An education that was to lead to endless trouble with the apartheid government which came into power in 1948. A struggle which would align me with many brave people, some who got killed because of their beliefs. Steve Biko, a fellow King Williams Towner, was a good friend. They killed him in 1977. I digress once again. Back to breakfast. As I said, I used to have two eggs for breakfast. Years later I was not able to eat eggs. Probably, like religion, I had too much as a child. The truth is that I drank too much and ate too little. That is why I eat my healthy and comparatively simple breakfast in New Farm so many decades later. Before I go for the walk, I pour hot water over a small bowl of oats and leave them to soak while I go for that elaborate and fascinating walk already described. I reheat the water, make myself a cup of tea (herbal, no milk with honey), put some honey onto the porridge, add some almond nuts and a cut up banana. I must say that with all the floods and cyclone Yasi, the price of bananas has gone up astronomically. They are now 12 dollars a kilo. Fortunately I can buy then for 5 dollars a kilo at the Powerhouse Markets twice a month. These markets are well worth a visit for the visitor to Brisbane. Though they are a bit posh and one has to have a little white dog as a companion, they are well worth a visit if only to look at the products and the upmarket people. There are quite a lot of these farmers markets in Australia. It gives Australians, mainly urban people, a sense of belonging to the country. The ruggedness (read endless spaces of dryness) of the outback is a myth still alive and well in this great land. Mind you, those who think of themselves as from the land now fight back by calling city dwellers the latte and/or the chardonnay set. I suppose I would be thought of as one of the latte set (I do

love soy chai latte). And I do drink chardonnay. Not exclusively, as sauvignon blanc is taking over. By the way I drink these white wines because I cannot drink red wine or spirits because of the damage to my liver which I have already mentioned. Hence the long road back to my healthy breakfast. I am glad I have come to this. Before I started eating porridge, I used to get very tired after only a couple of hours. But porridge is low GI. And as my friend June says, the Scots live long because they eat porridge in the morning. Not that she is prejudiced against the Scots. She is a very nice lady and a good friend. She is one of the people who started sex education in Brisbane and is very broad minded. We are going to a movie this coming Friday.

1930. Child Realised that I was alive While being babysat By a black woman Who inspired both Comfort and fear. In a small house of a Catholic family In a tiny town called King 1940. Adolescent.

While eating breakfast in my armchair (a disgusting habit as I sometimes make a mess) I watch ABC 24. Such a welcome relief from the morning news on channels 7 and 9. For years I had to watch Koshi and Stefanovic. I didn’t mind Koshi so much but Stef was the pits. He thought that the sun shone out of you know where. And to think he recently won the Logie award. So now I watch ABC 24. Not only do I get better news coverage and not silly little stories, constantly interrupted by adverts, but the news is conveyed by the demure Michael and Virginia. I like their coy banter. And the team is complemented by Vanessa, a looker. One does get used to the journalistic backup in the ABC. These days Sally Sara seems to be all over the Middle East and frequently wears a flack jacket and helmet while in Iraq or Afghanistan. Emma Alberici is something else and seems to handle most events in Europe. Very Gothic, very cool. I must say I do watch or listen to a lot of news. Morning and evening with the ABC. Sometimes at noon while driving around. I really don’t know why I buy the newspapers as they don’t tell me much more. The Courier Mail is especially uninformed. Though I get it almost every day, I usually don’t read much except the headlines. Mind you, the comics are good. I love the Phantom (pity there is a different one in the Sunday Mail) and Dagwood. On Sunday I buy the Sydney Morning Herald but mainly for the Spectrum section. Recently I met the young woman who is the editor of Crikey.com. It is an online paper and comes out every day. It is very good and is mostly analytic. While I was living in Canada, the main paper I used to read was the Christian Science Monitor which had the best info on international news. During my year in London in 1973 I always read the Guardian. Pity it’s so expensive here. So maybe Crikey is the way to go.

Had my first wet dream Or, to put it more formally, Nocturnal pollution. With it came forbidden dreams of Breasts and bodies and an Enormous sense of Guilt. 1950. Manhood. Became a minor God In that I was ordained a Priest, The first to come from my town In a century. With power to change Bread and wine and to forgive The Most heinous of crimes. 1960. Cracks. Fell in love with a Beautiful woman While still a priest. The split life began. Eros versus agape. 1970. Criminal.

After breakfast I do my toiletries. I only shave once every two days. Skin is very thin, literally and figuratively. I also only shower every two days which disgusts some of my lady friends. But let it be said that I do use deodorant. We are well past the 60’s. After looking at my email, I lie down on the bed with a heat pad on my neck. I have always had trouble with my neck. Damaged two vertebrae when I came

One of the Most Wanted Persons in South Africa Left the priesthood because of Social involvement with the Oppressed.

THAT DAY… May 17, 2011 had no special significance in my life. It did not stand out among the approximately 30,571 days I had already lived. Except that it was the day I chose to write about it. There were no specific reasons why I should have chosen that day. It, in fact, was a very ordinary day. No great lightening strikes, no floods, no message from above, nothing to mark it as being of significance. Very ordinary. So there it was, this totally insignificant day chosen. It must have thought it had won the Lotto. Not that the person who had chosen it was of any great significance. He was quite an ordinary guy who you might just give a smile to while walking along the river or seeing him buying his Campbells soup in Coles. This chap, me, had lived for millions of seconds before May 17, 2011. For me, they had glided past quite imperceptibly. The reason is that the past is constantly becoming the future. Like mercury, the present is impossible to pin down. In fact it can be carved up into an infinite number of parts. Try and pin a second down and you will disappear into a black hole or a white light. Not that you have much choice. Some forms of meditation suggest that we should live in the present, in the moment. But in an odd kind of way, the present is always moving. Jump into it and you are in for a rough ride. Unless you lose all emotions and thoughts which makes you become nothing, Nirvana. Which, I guess is one way of disappearing. But the tick tock of life goes on. My own past, like everyone else’s, becomes my future. In this essay I have photographed one particular day, May 17, 2011. Just one of 30, 571 days already lived. Although this number of days seem to be quite numerous, the count in minutes and seconds is far more substantial. I have now lived more than 733, 704 hours. In seconds I total a stupendous 44, 022,240 and since then the tick-tock of time marches inexorably forward. Because I have lived for so many days, I think it might be best to situate this one day that has occurred at this moment in time. This day which is on the end of a long life. As I alluded to some people and events in my past life, it might help the reader to know a little more about what happened to me in those many days that have past. I will be as succinct as I can. I will commence by stating what happened in each decade and then fill in those decades in a more elaborate fashion.

off my bike in King on the way home from mass. Always the church’s fault. Besides that I have had arthritis for many decades. Already had one hip replacement. But we won’t go down that path of an ‘organ recital’ as a dermatologist friend, Joy, used to call it. So, if you are over 65 and meet another person that age or more, never ask them how they are. They might tell you and it might take a very long time. While lying there with the heat pad on my neck, I suppose I drift off into that very light sleep I spoke about earlier. Wonderful stuff. The best time of the day. But I do look after my neck. Lots of exercise. People must sometimes think I am strange doing neck exercises while walking. But two discs have almost gone. Wear and tear. Moreover I do yoga breathing while lying there. So it doesn’t count as sleeping. And, incidentally, this state of what I called Twilight Dreaming is where I get all my best thoughts. Like writing many poems and this piece I am now doing. Very busy sleep! So, at about 9am, I am ready for the world. Before going out into it, I check my email. I cannot let this moment pass without mentioning the trouble I have been having with my PC. It all started four months back when, because I was having trouble with my old one, my son David advised the purchase of a new one. That was when the problems started. To my horror, the motherboard burnt out – so I was told- in the first month. For a week, everything was fine. Then it started slowing down until it was almost unworkable. So I called Officeworks, from whom I had acquired the PC, for help. They referred me to the producer in Sydney. That is when the saga really got worse. Eventually, I was talking to a technician in Manila for four hours. Anyway it was fixed for a while. Then it started again. Or rather, didn’t start. To cut a very long story short, if it wasn’t for the considerable and kind help from one of the technicians in Officeworks, I would never have had a PC again. So I am very careful with this one on which I am writing this rather meandering piece on ordinary day in the life of an ordinary man. May I just make this general observation that between the time I have spent managing computers and mobile phones, I think it may have well been quicker to have resorted to tom tom drums or smoke signals. But judging by the number of gadgets around, electronic impulses are going to be the only means of communication in the future. Pity someone doesn’t tell the young people of today that they really do have tongues and vocal chords with which they can communicate. But maybe this is all just an age thing.

8.30 to 10.30am As it is already past 8:30 we should go downstairs (I live on the second floor of Glenfalloch) to the lower level of the garage where my rather large gas guzzler is waiting for me. Quite a worry these days when the price of petrol is rising, peak oil has probably been reached and I am worried about climate change. I am frankly embarrassed about driving such a large car in these times. Maybe I should walk or acquire a bicycle (not one of those horrible Yellow Tails of City Cycle downstairs, just in front of our building). Anyway, JP, the finance man at the New Farm Neighbourhood Centre is waiting for me to sign cheques. The Centre, as I shall call it from now on, is situated at the lower end of Brunswick Street opposite New Farm Park. The Centre has had a history as a Community Centre for over two decades and is well known, not only in New Farm but in the wider inner north east suburbs of Brisbane. Unlike some community centres in Sydney, which cater for a middle class clientele, the Centre is more directed to the less advantaged, though by no means exclusively so. When I moved to New Farm about 12 years ago, I still had remnants of my save-the-world attitude. So, walking past the Centre one day, I decided to offer my services as a volunteer which they accepted. I had hoped to work with the disadvantaged but instead was asked to serve on the Management Committee which I did and have done until today. I have occupied various roles on the committee including president a couple of times. At the moment I am secretary. Though I am retired and only a volunteer, I spend about 5-10 hours a week at the Centre depending on whether it is in crisis or regular mode or something in between. For me, the Centre has become a substitute for my work environment. On retiring, I think that a clean break from the workplace is best. In my case it was the School of Education at the University of Queensland. I know that some academics hang around their old work place and stay there for as long as they can. For me, I moved on. Once you do not have a paid position, you are out of the loop in a week or so. In any event I needed a base in New Farm. When I came here, I was still working for the University of the Third Age and doing volunteer work in palliative care at Mount Olivet Hospital. But I was moving away from these two organisations and needed a local base. Our Centre is an interesting community made up of workers, volunteers and constituents. There are about 15 workers, something like 40 volunteers and several hundred constituents. Though the workers at one time tried to reestablish the Paris Commune of 1872, they do have one manager and three senior workers. Though this is an hierarchical establishment, the sense of camaraderie among the workers is strong. While I have been on the committee there have been six managers, the longest serving of them being Fiona Caniglia, well known in social work circles and a tireless worker. The present Manager is Fiona Hunt, a very calm, poised, warm person who

So by nineish it’s off to meet the most wonderful companion I have...my bed. Here again I have to thank my friend Judy. I know nothing about beds and she very kindly came with me in order to make a selection. After considerable research I was able to buy a bed to die for. It is like floating in heaven. Not that I know anything about heaven except that there are little angels floating around and adults strumming harps and stuff. I wonder if musicians get preference. There is St Peter at the pearly gates. The first question is not, what have you been doing but what instrument do you play? None. Well, the learning class is in purgatory. Mind you I believe even that place has disappeared off the calendar. Pity compulsory celibacy for priests and birth control for the laity did not go the same way. But while the dictatorship of the Catholic Church is the hands of a bunch of old men, that is not likely to happen. Time to stop being bitchy. A half hour of reading, usually of the crime genre. One doesn’t have to think to read them. Mind you I am currently reading one of Nadine Gordimers novels. South African, of course you might say. But I do wish I could write like her. Who wants to win the Nobel prize for literature? Off to bed and perchance to dream. But they don’t come before midnight. And the Ordinary Day in the life of an ordinary man is over. Au revoir. Not adieu as I have a little more to say.

down the road. I suppose that most other Australian men would view this as also a betrayal of ordinariness. No matter. Most traits are relative. After all, how ordinary can one get. One might even become very boring. I really miss Mary Kostakidis on SBS. Rumour had it that it was something to do with, horror of horrors, introducing adverts into the news without any consultation. And I would agree with her. Adverts are the cutting edge of capitalism. Not that the ABC or SBS are socialist though some politicians might think so. But they are nice comfortable middle of the roaders. I like them. Janette Peterson is good and she has nice collar bones. Sorry about that. I realise that might sound a little sexist but I am trying to be truthful here. Don’t like Anton Enus much. He seems to be a little arrogant. I hope that they are not ex South Africans. Too many of them around especially, thank goodness, in faraway Perth where they longingly look across the Indian Ocean at their land of origin much like my 12 ducks sit and look across the river each morning when I go walking. At 7.30 comes the moment of great choice. In the past, while Kerry O’Brien was still with us, there would be no choice. But the new 7.30 Report is not as good. Not that I am saying Leigh Sales is bad. On the contrary. But who could fill the shoes of O’Brien? The alternative, it being Tuesday night as you remember, is Insight on SBS. I don’t recollect what the topic was on Insight that night but it did not appeal to me and I stayed with the 7.30 Report. After that, it was anyone’s guess. Generally speaking, however, I stay with the ABC. After all, it is supposed to be the people’s channel. And I being one of the people, support it. I might just say at this point and this is confessional statement, that you may have noticed that I am one of those dreaded ex-South Africans. Not one of those who gather in groups and eat boerewors and biltong, though I am partial to both. And, of course, complain bitterly at how the Old Country is going to the dogs under black rule. President Zuma with all those wives! And all that violence. We told you so. Black government is bad and the whole of Africa is going down the gurgler. I prefer to keep away from these folk. They are entitled to have their own opinion as long as I don’t have to listen to their complaints. A few more readers lost? But I must say that having come to this country at the age of 47, I still found it very difficult to say that I am a true blue Ozzie. Actually I cringe at that cry Ozzie Ozzie Ozzie Oi Oi Oi! which we heard at the Sydney Olympic Games. Australia has been good to me. I really only came here, courtesy of Mr Whitlam in 1975. I just made it. Though I had a criminal record (a political one I may hasten to add) he generously allowed me to enter the country. With partner. Actually I am a kind of refugee. Then I could not go back to South Africa except to go to jail. Which makes me cringe at the atrocious way in which the refugees are being treated by both political parties in this country. South Africa has something like six million refugees. By comparison, the ones in this country are a miniscule minority. But, for fear of losing more readers, I will desist from further debate on this topic. We might just agree to disagree as the saying goes.

favours gothic black. Robyn, the wonderful new Community Development worker, is a little more inclined to multi coloured dress. Janice, who has run the Tenancy and Advice Service for quite a number of years, is more constrained in her tastes and has a quirky sense of humour. Charlotte, in charge of the homeless unit, Hart 4000, is far out. With tattoos, rings, and spiky hair, she is definitely with it. Nice contrasts. In addition to this team, Jean Paul (JP) attends to the finances of the Centre and is at the heart of its operations. Rachel, a willowy young lady, is admin assistant. The management committee which is technically in charge of the centre is also pretty diverse in background. A couple of lawyers, an accountant, several public servants and a business woman make up a diverse and, hopefully, efficient team. The other volunteers (the management committee are all volunteers) in fact run much of the day to day work of the centre such as answering the phone, talking to constituents preparing meals and generally being very useful. The constituents (I do not like that word) are those people who need help. Those-who-need-help. This notion intrigues me. I don’t like it but I have to work out exactly what I am doing at the centre. This morning I sign cheques, talk to Robyn and Fiona and a couple of the volunteers. All in all I am out of there in about an hour. With my save-the-world mentality, what have I really done this morning? At a big picture level, one thinks of eliminating the rich/poor divide. In my years in South Africa, the struggle was much more obvious as also was the enemy. At this level, one can be a socialist, an ALP supporter or a Greenie. But, on the political level, despite the rhetoric, there is not too much difference between the various parties. When I first came to Australia in 1975 I was given the book, “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum” which makes this point. At this level the very real danger is that one becomes too wedded to a particular ideology. Whether it be “Workers of the World Unite” or wanting everyone to become Christian, over-riding world views lack nuance and most of the time do not consider the fact that communities and nations are made up of individual human beings. On a micro level, one can engage in one to one conversation or help another who needs some kind of help. There are also very real dangers. Firstly one can be patronising. This is frequently done, not in an obvious way but subtlely. I really do have something that you don’t have and I can help you. Here it is, take it. Or one can commodify the other who is in need. This is so easily done by thinking in generalisations. The Homeless need this. The Refugees need that. This kind of commodification is frequently found when the worker moves away from the coalface into the upper echelons of the bureaucracy.

I have puzzled over this problem for many years, especially while in South Africa. One night, flying from New York to London, I read a book that was to give me the answers or at least to direct me in the right way. It was a work by a well known Latin American activist, Paulo Freire called “Pedagogy of the Oppressed”. In essence Freire in working with the poor advocated two simple strategies. One was something that five year old children are supposed to acquire on their march to adulthood, namely to put oneself into the shoes of the other. A move that in my opinion is acquired by very few adults or at least not acted upon by them. The second was not to tell people what to do but to teach them how to improve themselves and in so doing improve the society around them. Although the word “empowerment” is now a cliché often misused, it is the crucial word in Freire’s methodology. He did this by the process of conscientisation which has also been translated somewhat misleadingly as awareness raising. The very best of social workers use this strategy though they may never have heard of Freire. Pity he isn’t taught in Social Work departments. Sorry about this deviation but I warned you! I guess it does raise the question of why one should want a better world. To be simplistic, there are those who give and those who take. The first are greedy and the second probably can’t help themselves. Oddly enough it is frequently the poor who are the least greedy. But I have started walking out of the Centre. I had intended going to swim in Fortitude Valley Pool in my large petrol guzzling car. On the way there I stopped at the newsagent to pick up a Courier Mail, despite the fact that I have decided not to read papers anymore but to rely on the radio and TV and maybe Crikey.com. Bryan and Rita, the owners were there and after picking up a bit of gossip…a good place to do so…I decided to buy myself a lotto ticket. A mistake. I NEVER win anything. But that story would take me down a long path. So I went to the pool. I must tell you that I lost a huge chunk of manuscript at this point, namely from going into the pool and writing about my legal wife, Ros whom you shall hear about later. The bit I lost was all about swimming in the pool and then thinking about all the people who influenced me. It is really daunting having to do this section all over again. I don’t know what happened to the disappearing material. But I just hate having to go back and recreate the same thing. Maybe it’s like having twins without having them. Oops, there’s another one following on. Not that I have had twins. I am one but it’s not the same thing. In any case someone should really invent computers for older people that would not do all these mysterious things at the most inconvenient times. Some kind of machine with fail safe mechanisms so that one would not lose things. And to think that it just disappears without trace. I should go back to writing with a pen. I still do this while writing poetry. One has to be careful. The PC does free one up I must admit. So, on we go. Just remember, up to Ros these are second impressions and I am very impatient. So I might say some inappropriate things about those who influenced me or, for that matter, what happened in the swimming pool.

6 to 9.30pm On arrival at Glenfalloch and catching the lift up to the second floor, I was immediately confronted by an empty fridge. Now I don’t really know whether the empty fridge is a boy syndrome. But I do have a suspicion borne out by my long association with a number of women that it is. Or so they tell me. Men, it would seem do not plan ahead, at least in the food line. Talk of fishing or footy and preparations become elaborate. Whatever. I had no food in my fridge. In the face of this survival factor I immediately drew on the primitive instincts of mankind in its hunter and gathering stage. I went to the cupboard and, lo and behold, there was the last remaining tin of Mr Campbell’s soup. My saviour on many occasions. What is even more for those who are purists in the culinary line, it was labelled, “rich country vegetables”. I mean how healthy can one get. I tore the tin open, placed its contents into a large bowl and, voila, my supper was at my elbow by my well used chair facing the TV. With it was a nice chilled glass of Chenet sauvignon blanc. What more could a bachelor wish for. I must say that in my own defence I have risen to greater heights than on this particular night of May 17th. Last night, for instance, I had, with great forethought purchased a piece of fresh Tasmanian salmon and a couple of potatoes and sweet potatoes. Wrapping the fish in foil, I placed it under the griller. Since arriving in Glenfalloch I have not used my stove. I am afraid of it. It is my nemesis. I am not sure why. Perhaps once again one should think hunters and gatherers before fire was discovered and homo sapiens ate their meat raw. I am not making excuses but merely asking the reader to consider the possibility. Anyway I sliced up a couple of potatoes and placed them in a container with a little water and put them into the microwave, the machine of the bachelor. In nine minutes – I did not time it exactly – I had an haute cuisine meal. So, with great courage and forethought I can do it. Like the other Can Do man, our erstwhile mayor of Brisbane. Can Do Campbell and Can Campbell. A nice ring to it. Perhaps I should suggest it to his advisors planning his campaign to become premier of Queensland. No disrespect meant. As I drink my soup it is usually time for the SBS news at 6.30. If I settle in before that I might just have a glance at Channel 7 or 9’s news to pick up the local gossip. Not too much for the mind there. SBS, not that it is that more analytic, does give more of an idea of what is going on in the rest of the world. And I don’t have to watch those great chunks of sport. Now I do realise that some form of footy is practically the national religion in Australia. I know followers of Collingwood who would almost do anything to be at a match of their team. Overall it assumes a cult status. I am an agnostic. I do not subscribe to any religion, sport included. I know that I will lose a large portion of my readers by saying this. They might even sneer and say, so much for the ordinary man. Well I may just have a particular brand of ordinariness. I may point out in my defence that I hardly ever go to ballet or the theatre. I do go to the movies though I am ashamed to admit that I only go to the Palace Centro

woman hardly walks at all. They must go at about one tenth of the pace that man-without-dog walks. Then there are the common dog kind of dog walkers. They allow a very fast sniff every ten metres or so. This gradually goes up on a scale until man rides a bike and dog has to run along too. So much for taking the dog for a walk. If only dogs could ride bikes which I guess some of them do in the circus. Animal lovers are increasingly objecting to having animals being in circuses or even zoos. The worst case I saw of man taking dog for walk was of a guy who actually had his dog pull him along on a skate board. I would never ever let anyone do that to Bella; she is much too small and dignified for that to happen to her.

Actually nothing out of the ordinary did happen. I went inside, took my clothes off and put my speedos on (if Mr Abbott can wear budgie smugglers, so can I) and jumped into the 26.9 degree water. No, I did not use my body thermometer. I asked the attendant. So I swam my usual 200 metres. I realise that this distance is not very much. I used to swim a couple of kilometres when I was young and still am a fairly good swimmer. Never swam competitively but I can still get along. On some days the 50 metre pool is reduced in some lanes to 25 metres. I prefer this distance as I cannot do 50 metres without having to change strokes from breast to free style.

Taking Bella for a walk was a great experience. She was interested in everything. Like a small child she saw everything with great curiosity. Besides that, there is the dark side to walking the dog. She peed every 100 metres and had one large poo. In Australia we pick up dog poo with a plastic bag and put it into a garbage bin. When I first visited New York I was entranced by seeing women using so-called pooper scoopers. I even saw one pooper scooperless woman holding her poodle over a garbage bin and having it doing its stuff in the direct mode.

Lap swimmers constitute most of the swimmers in the Valley pool, home of one of the best known teams in the country, the Commercial Club. Watching the swimmers is a monumental bore. I wonder what they think about while they go up and down, up and down. Some of them keep it up for an hour or more. It must be even worse for professional swimmers. I wonder if they get the same kind of loneliness as does the long distance runner. I wish one of them would write a book about their thoughts while they are swimming these vast distances. After all I was going to call this work A Boring Day in the Life of a Boring Man. They could write something about the boring thoughts of a boring swimmer.

When we got down to the dog play place near the Powerhouse, I let her loose to play with her many friends there. Much huffing and puffing. And so much sniffing. You know where. So much for walking Bella. When I got back to the Skordilis’ place, we fed her on My Dog purchased in Coles in case you don’t remember and have a dog yourself.

Anyway, I got rather bored with watching these powerful men – most of them are men-swimming endlessly. And that is why I went into a kind of reverie about those people who have influenced me in my life. Now I know you are going to think this is just a literary device and I am sneaking it in here. Well, you may be right.

As the sky darkened I hopped into my large petrol guzzling Magna and drove home to Glenfalloch. This ordinary day of an ordinary man was about to come to an end. And as T.S. Eliot once said, it was to end with a whimper and not a bang. That is the price one has to pay for being an ordinary man.

I divided them into categories – you know me by now. There are the men with mojo, the women with mojo and then the men and women. I have chosen three from each category. Three is a mystical number. Trinitarian and all that. And even Caesar divided Gaul – now France – into three parts. Firstly the men with mojo. These three men influenced the way I thought. Now I am not suggesting that thought is separated from emotion. On the contrary. But they influenced my world view in particular which had great influence on my emotions. The first was Diego (his real name was Didacus Connery). He was a rotund little Franciscan monk who taught at the national seminary for whites in Pretoria in the early fifties. At that time I was doing a BA at the University of Pretoria. The previous Vatican rep had thought it a good idea that some priests should be proficient in Afrikaans. So there I was, part of the “Roman Danger” nestling in the birthplace of apartheid, a doctrine that I was to oppose so strongly. While there I was also chaplain to the catholic students on campus from 1951 to 1953. Diego was rapidly becoming a well known name among the catholic intelligentsia (an oxymoron?). He was a true renaissance man. He could talk on art, literature, history and of course theology. His lectures on Shakespeare

were, for example, the best I have ever heard before and consequently. A kind of salon grew up around him, the kind of thing that used to happen in Athens 2500 years ago and France in the earlier twentieth century.

After they left, I chatted to Judith a bit and then spoke to another youngish lady asking if she, too, would like to be in my book. By this time Judith was convinced that I was using this book thing as a pickup line.

Diego was way ahead of his time. Very much ahead of the Vatican Council TWO.That was to take place in the sixties. He had a huge vision of Christianity modelled largely on Paul’s letters to the Colossians and Ephesians. His was a very positive Christianity, a risk taking one and not the negative guilt ridden one that was prevalent at that time. It was inspiring and I was taken into it. A good example was the mass.

Oddly enough, when I approached Veronica she told me that her book which had already been published in Australia had just appeared in the US. Called “Pieces of Me” it sounded like a fantastic personal study on genetic traits that were passed down in families. I am sorry that I did not find out more about Veronica. Maybe I will Google her book.

At that time, priests said mass on a faraway altar with their backs to the people and in Latin, a language that they did not understand. Diego used to run Formation Schools, small groups of people spending a week together and trying to experience life as it should be lived. Mass was said by Diego in ordinary clothes, at a table, with ordinary bread and wine and in English. This all was considered a mortal sin. When I said mass as he did, I had crossed a line. I never looked back once I crossed that line. My life was never to be the same.

Just imagine that. Three of us either writing books or having books published out of five people sitting in the CB. Which just goes to show, you never know what is going on in that place. It attracts all sorts of people doing all sorts of things. Some ordinary and some quite extraordinary. I was once having coffee with a good friend from West End. She was Very Important. Sitting over the way on the main table were also two Very Important Women. In fact, as I stated with great insight, here I am, an ordinary man sitting in the same cafe as three of the most important people in Brisbane.

I fell in love at one of those schools. I never made love to Sue. But it was close. Years later she was to claim that she had unleashed my sexuality. Which makes IT sound like a wild beast. Diego understood. He was a man of great integrity and wisdom. My life was not the same after him. He died very courageously in 1955 aged 42. His last drink was a cognac.

My old and new friends left but just as I was about to follow, two other friends came in who used to live in Glenfalloch. Vladimir, despite his name, is Spanish. So also is his partner, Paloma. I trotted out my line about the book I was writing and that led to another long discussion. The only part of that discussion I remember is that Vladimir mentioned a book written about a seagull. Jonathon Livingstone Seagull. This seagull had a human name and human attributes. It was very much like the Little Prince, my bible since I have abandoned the real one.

Over a decade later I was to come across the second great male mojo influence in my life, Paulo Friere. Flying across from New York to London I spent the entire night reading his Pedagogy of the Oppressed. The year was 1966. Already there was a kind of second wave of younger white people getting involved in the struggle against apartheid in a fairly radical way. Because I was running the education department in the SA Bishops Conference, I had access to schools and universities. Already we were moving in the direction of enabling younger people to think for themselves. In Freire’s language conscientisation or awareness raising was the complete opposite to the banking concept in which knowledge was fed to the pupils. I have already described Paulo’s notion of making people aware of themselves and of their surrounds and how to improve it. His ideas of awareness raising and empowering have become used and practised by all sorts of people throughout the world. Freire became a good friend and I saw him in action in Boston, Geneva and Santiago, Chile. He too was a renaissance man. A man with mojo. The third man with mojo was John Eisenberg. His influence over me was of a very different sort to Diego and Paulo. While studying at the Ontario Institute of Studies in Education, (OISE) a post graduate institution which gives its degrees from the University of Toronto, he taught me how to think clearly. You might not think he had much effect on reading this.

When they left, I went up to the counter, paid Meredith (which I sometimes forget to do), kissed her on both cheeks the French way and walked off into the sunset. Not really into the sunset but up to the Skordilis' house. The Skordilis’ family is comprised of Theo and Sophie and Despina and Spiro,their children. More importantly they own a cat, Tigger and a dog, Bella. When I arrived there Bella greeted me with great attention. She is in love with me. She is in love with everyone who will take her for a walk or feed her. Bella is a spoodle and she eats My Dog which one can purchase at Coles. By the way, Sophie is a good friend. We served on the management committee of the NFNC for a number of years together. She has been a wise counsellor, an interesting and kind woman. Back to taking Bella for a walk. Perhaps the most revealing event of the day at least for me. There are various kinds of dog walkers. I do not speak of the professional ones which exist in the US. Most of us in Australia walk our own. I once owned a dog in South Africa called Claudie. But I can’t deviate except to say that he took some grief from the Security Police. There are various kinds of dog walkers. There are the dog-walks-man kind. They allow their dog on a lead to do anything at all. Dogs are very curious and the worst offenders sniff at almost everything. The result is that the man or

cake (even a modest portion) you can read the paper, talk to friends, talk to strangers or just put your head back and rest with closed eyes as I know someone does. You can work if you want. Many customers bring their laptops. Some stay for five minutes and some for five hours, or so it is rumoured. My stay rarely goes beyond an hour. Which, I suppose is about as ordinary as one can get. As you can see CB is a very alternative place. In it one can sometimes find alternative people (not that ordinary ones are disallowed as you can see by the fact that I frequent the place). When I walked in on May 17, brimming over with excitement over the book I was about to write, I ordered my customary soy chai latte and modest portion of cake and went to sit next to my German speaking friend, Judith (not to be confused with Judy whom I have mentioned already). I told her of my project and she was very excited by this. We spoke on a bit and then I noticed two attractive young women sitting at the table next to us. I gathered up my courage - I am very shy, besides being a very ordinary person - and went over to these exquisite women. I announced in my shy way that I was writing a book and asked them if they would like to be in it. They looked up and one, Lisa, said that she had just written a book. It was called ‘Going with the mojo flow’. Quite exciting that was. Both of these young women work in a very interesting area. In the early fifties the Group Dynamic movement split into two branches, the one concerned with personal development and the other with organisational development. The PD side of this flowered in the Sixties into all sorts of self-help works which became a huge industry. With 6,000 others I once listened to one of the minor figures in this movement. He jokingly stated that at a recent meeting of the gurus of PD, he was the only one who did not arrive in his personal jet. Not that I don’t think that some of this stuff was very worthwhile. In the sixties, reading of Maslow and Rogers was compulsory. I may mention that I soon broke ranks with this group in South Africa as I tried to come to terms with the rather more dangerous game of attacking apartheid. Not much good telling the police that you were self-actualised while they were aiming an AK-47 at your belly. The other side of the group was the OD arm. Very soon, this was taken up by corporations. The cynical ones said that they did so to make more effective workers. Others stated that it made the workplace more humane. I think Karl Marx would have chosen the first option, which I guess I shared for a long time. This, in turn, made me a very dangerous man according to the Security Police in South Africa. Mind you I have become a very ordinary man since I have come to Australia. To get back to Barbara and Lisa in CB. As I stated, they both seem to be doing very valuable work which creates a bridge between self-help strategies and corporations. A very necessary part of the fabric of society. It makes capitalism more humane. Or maybe it makes humans more capitalistic. I should ask them.

John had the sharpest mind I had ever known. During my time at OISE from 1971-1975, I was his student and he was my mentor. Although he did not agree with most of what I wrote in my PHD thesis, which, incidentally was on Freire and Black Consciousness in South Africa, he challenged me all the way. His field was that of moral education. His knowledge of philosophy was immense. John was not always easy to get along with. But he was always fun to be with. Whenever one made a statement he would challenge it. He had a sharp mojo. He died recently. Now for the women with mojo. Their influence was mostly emotional. Not that they weren’t bright and highly intelligent. But I guess the emotionality arose from the nature of my relationship with them. The first was Biffy (Elizabeth). I first met Biffy when I was working for the Vatican Rep (in jail as I used to joke as we hardly got any time off) but while the Archbishop was away, I used to give public lectures in the centre of Pretoria. One day late in 1957, I noticed a diamond among the rather ordinary audience. She was dressed to go out to dinner with her very important legal husband. She was searching for the truth. For the next 14 years or so while I still remained in South Africa, Biffy and I were very close. Biffy influenced me in many ways, some of them seemingly small. I had been brought up in a family of women, a mother and six daughters. I was largely ignored as my father really didn’t pay me much attention, except when I stepped out of line. Thus there were many small matters of personal hygiene that I knew very little about. Biffy reminded me of them, everything from the use of deodorant to having clean shirts. I did lots of ordinary things with her such as shopping, and going to the movies. Biffy was an extremely attractive woman. She was also one who lived on the edge, something that I believe contributed to her early death at the age of 60. She was very sharp, intelligent, a good musician and a wonderful companion. She was my star, my diamond. She etched her name on many. I had the privilege to be one of them. The second woman I have chosen to mention in Ros. What did I learn from Ros and how did she influence me? In the first instance, out relationship started as a very passionate affair. I really had not known such a flow of lust energy in my life before that. Love. Companionship. Affairs. Yes. But lust to that extent, which turned onto a kind of love I had not experienced before. And it was this, in the main, which carried us through 20 years of life together. Ros is a very sensual person and so am I. The explosion that resulted was marvellous to behold. So, she taught me how to make love. Mind you, the learning went both ways. Very good.

Also, Ros was a very fine piano player. So she introduced me to music. Our children inherited some of that. So I had three musicians in the family. I was the audience. Then of course, she gave me two wonderful children and they became the most important factor in my life. We learnt together how to bring up kids. She took the top half and I the bottom. Quite a change washing nappies and having to wipe bottoms from being a pseudo revolutionary in South Africa. She also showed me how to live with an artistic person. An enneagram type 4. Very dangerous. I usually pick that type but now I actually lived, travelled with and made love to one. Another story. Lastly, though I fled the family nest 13 years ago, after four years of great agony, we are firm friends. She has gone her way and I, mine. She is a great part of my history and I of hers. And so it will remain. This kind of emotional effect on me can be last illustrated by my relationship with Judy. Over the last two years plus she has been a good friend and occasional companion. She is here and she is now. Due to her I have become a better nester. Over the last four years, I had planned to refurbish my small unit but never seemed to get around to it. Without words, I was persuaded to do so. I now have a new flat, much more minimalist and much more likeable. I also buy cut flowers and grow them too. Ros used to complain that I never bought flowers for her. Now I do...for me. I also acquired a taste for better clothing and learned the difference between nylon, silk and wool. I learned to vacuum more frequently and wash my dishes more often. She taught by example. I also learned to appreciate theatre. Under her guidance I acquired the finest bed that I have ever owned. As I grow older, that bed becomes more and more important to me. Lastly and not least, I have learned not to complain of small adversities. She smiles frequently. That face lights up a room with those lovely eyes and red lips. You are a beautiful friend, Judy. Thank you for that. I have often wondered about the position of women in our society. All the women described were in relationships with understanding men. Furthermore, they were and are intelligent and capable persons. Yet, I don’t think any of them realised their very considerable potential. It’s not as if they were not allowed to do so. But there seems to be something inherent in male/female relationships that restricts women. And this is still happening despite the many gains that women have made in the social, economic and cultural domains in the last half century. One can understand this happening to my grandmother, my mother and my sister. But the two latter mojo women are baby boomers. What are we doing wrong? What about empowerment? I don’t have any answers to these questions that puzzle me.

wears them with such finesse that you would think they came from the most expensive shop in town. Not that I would know, as I am a notorious nonshopper. I am proud of this fact. A number of very mojo women have tried to convert me to shopping but unless they come and watch me doing so, I flee. As I stated Meredith is a living work of art. She wears her clothes better than the best professional. But she does it in a cool way. Gently, as are most of her movements. She glides her way amongst the tables and chairs in the CB with litheness and grace. I know that she will be embarrassed by all this. No matter, she is the centre of CB and her presence makes CB what it is. And what is it you might ask? Go there and see. First of all it is tiny. One small room and a tiny kitchen. Stuck onto the one corner of an old house. The furniture in it is unique. No one piece is the same as the other. Tables, chairs, and benches are varied. Meredith says that each one has been given to the CB. None of these steel railings, glass and those silly little backless stools so common in the coffee shops in other parts of the city. I wonder if the owners ever sit on these stools themselves. Unless one has been in the army, one cannot sit on them for any length of time. They should all be thrown out and the higgledy-piggledy style of CB adopted by all. Mind you, that would diminish the CB clientele so maybe we should not spread the good news. Meredith is assisted by, in the first instance, her family. David, her husband, usually only helps over the weekends as he works during the week. Jackson, the elder son, puts in most time there. A very good barrista, he is also a muso. And a good one at that too. Sometimes he has hair on his head and sometimes not. I am not sure what whim causes him to make such radical changes. Maybe he moves to an inner beat, which the youngest son, Adam, who doesn’t work at CB certainly seems to do. Their only daughter, McKenzie, also works at CB frequently. She is a looker. Lovely to look at, delightful to know. As the old song goes. Good to talk to as well, which she sometimes does when she is not working. There are a bevy of other young women who work at the CB and add to its quiet glamour. Sandy comes from Taiwan and she is my surrogate granddaughter. She gives a good neck and hand massage. Charlie is something else. She dresses in unusual clothes. Exotic, one might say. Seeing her riding down the street on her very old bike, dress billowing out the back and strange hat on head is a sight to behold. Genevieve is a slightly built young lady, an intuitive and kind woman. Ange, a young Asian woman- I have never asked her about her country of origin- also works at CB once in a while. As also does the smouldering Olivia (Sorry, Olivia, I know you don’t smoulder...it just looks as though you might). So, are you gradually getting the picture of CB? Lovely Meredith, cool assistants all looking very groovy, unusual furniture and not yet mentioned, all sorts of artefacts for sale. Books, shoes, pictures, shirts, scents all adorn the limited space on the walls. So while you drink your coffee or tea, nibble at a

3:30 to 5:00pm When I woke up, I started to think that there are three very different places where most of my activities occur. These three locations are Glenfalloch, New Farm Neighbourhood Centre and the Cafe Bouquiniste. Glenfalloch is the place in which I sleep, eat, rest and do all the other activities associated with a home. I forgot. I do drink there too. In moderation. One glass of good white wine per night. I also eat here. Alas, all too frequently, one of Mr Campbells soups. I also do other things in my home. I mean, such activities that elderly gentlemen indulge in such as sleeping, washing, taking ones pills of which there are many (I may have mentioned the arthritis and coronary artery disease and I will endeavour not to do so again). At NFNC I do the things that I have already described as part of my morning activities. Not that they are always in the morning. I sometimes go there before I go to the cafe. Sometimes I also go there after the cafe for the monthly Management Committee Meeting, an important event not to be missed. This particular day which we are describing - Tuesday May 17, I arrived at the cafe a little late, 3:45. You might notice that I do not do everything at exactly the same time. I am definitely not like Kant or Ted, my colleague, in this regard. You cannot set your watch by me. It is difficult to get into Cafe Bouquiniste at this time. The Council are laying huge pipes along the southern section of Merthyr Rd and blocking the entrance to the cafe which is at number 121 (in case you might like to visit). You can have an excellent coffee there. I generally have soy chai latte and a modest portion of yoghurt cake. Sometimes I have Terrible Tea which is the name given to some unusual chinese tea. A ginger kiss is very pleasant. It reminds me that one should kiss others at times otherwise one would run out of practice. Meredith, being a francophile, allows me to kiss her on both cheeks which is, of course, more modest than on the lips. Actually I have long arguments about this kissing thing. My separated wife maintains only a kiss on the cheek when you are saying hello or goodbye to an acquaintance. On the other hand, older women – good friends - tend to peck me on the lips. The latter is my preferred option though, I realise that you should not linger too long in case you are perceived a dirty old man or something like that. Which wouldn’t be very nice. So back to Meredith who is the boss person of the Cafe Bouquiniste (I will refer to it from now on as CB if you don’t mind as I find the spelling of the B word a little difficult...the fingers on the keyboard are used to English rather than French patterns). To put it frankly, Meredith is not a bossy person. She is a living work of art. I do not say this lightly. Few women could receive such praise and even fewer men. It may be true - so the rumour mill will have it that she buys most of her clothes down at the nearby RSPCA shop. But she

I stirred in my poolside reverie (remember I’m still there). Now the most important people in my genetic makeup passed before my eyes. We shall take the women first. Firstly, there was my mother, Dorothy. A short, petite woman she grew in size after having six children. She was the kindest person I have ever known. Despite having a tough husband, she never complained. She was sweet, nice and interceded for us with a rough father. In my better moments, I think I might have inherited just a little of her kindness and gentleness. She died at 48 as I was only just getting to know her. Louisa was my paternal grandmother. She too was very kind. She would give me pocket money when I was in the seminary though she had very little. Her husband was a frugal man. She also had to live with a rough man, one with great authority in the Collins Clan. She lived until 87. Good genes from her. Lastly, on the female family side, there was Rita. She was my number four sister. We had a certain affinity. In looks, she was the most like our mother. She, too, was very kind and gentle. She also lived patiently with a rather rough husband. We discussed many matters of moment. I spent two weeks with her two years ago lying side by side while she died of cancer. She never complained. It was a precious time. She was a great mother and a good friend. She was special. What about those three male members of the family who influenced me both genetically and trait wise? There were the two grandfathers and they could not have been more different. Alfred, the head of the Collins clan was a rotund man who had grown ponderous with age. He died at 93. Good genes again. He was a great entrepreneur. He had a farm of four acres and on that he raised 12 children. Yet he, an illiterate, became one of the richest men in town. I really didn’t get to know him well, except listening to him tell stories of the past. He was a hard man and stories of his toughness with his kids are legendary. But he could be persuaded to give away for causes, one of which was me. August, my maternal grandfather was just the opposite of Old Alf. He was a saint. And, as I found out only recently, an Irish saint. He did not work miracles and will never be canonised. But living with his very talkative wife was enough in my estimate to make him a saint. A humble man he gave all that he had. I liked him. He died at 68 before I really got to know him. Edward, my father. They called him Eddie. The brains of the family. A man who could be generous but tough. He was brought up the hard way. A bit risqué at times and a good looker. Was he a good father? They said he was too rough and made me work too hard. But I have very fond memories of him. I looked remarkably like him and he of me. He drank too much and so did I.

Genes again. He liked women. But then, so do I. My father loved fishing. I did not. But I still follow his genetic footprints. With that I woke up with a start. Time to go home for lunch. Got dressed, found the car...no tickets on it. So off I drove back to Glenfalloch.

For the rest of Glenfalloch, residents come and go. There is a nice variety of people in the building. Young and old. Short and long. Men and women. And, “sundry”. So, what’s for lunch? Cape Seed bread sandwich bought from Bakers Delight up in the shopping centre. Avocado and either ham or prosciutto bought from the Deli in the centre as well. Washed down with ginger beer or water followed by a piece of fruit and sometimes a vanilla Tim Tam. Of course this varies somewhat. Summer fare is usually a large bowl of lettuce with avocado bits mixed in with a small tin of tuna or salmon. Nice. Read the paper and listen to music as company. I actually realised recently that I spend about 95% of my time on my own. A lot for a social lad. Where are you, world of people? Then, the best of the day. Siesta. Thank God for the Italians. I really have not been able to function without a siesta. I can last until about 3 or 4 pm without one but not in an efficient way. Very annoying when travelling. But I have this great gift of being able to sleep almost anywhere. Best in my wonderful bed of course. Actually I never dream in siesta time. Because I become unconscious so easily I often wonder about the nature of sleep. One doesn’t exist while one sleeps. In a sense one dies. It is so similar to having a general anaesthetic. I have had about a dozen of them in my life and they do seem similar to death. One just floats away. One, two, three and maybe four and one is gone. It takes me a little longer to go to sleep but it has the same effect. I am gone, I no longer exist. I die. I wonder if that is what it is like when one dies. Only one doesn’t come back again. Though some people think one does float off into, hopefully heaven. A strange concept. The thought of dying is the birth of all religious thinking. We make God in our own image because we are scared about dying. We make God in our own image and likeness. Or so I think. I have had a near death experience. The light and all that kind of thing. Something that Mr Packer Snr did not have when he had his heart attack. Quite pleasant. But I do prefer coming back. So off I go into lovely la-la land. See you later somewhere between 2 and 3 pm.

10.30 to 3.30 Southbank is just like a hotel. Or so it seemed to me. Seven floors up, lights on all the time, no feet on the ground. But it was a fairly friendly place and I got used to it after a while. Much less upkeep than a house but give me a house anytime. The closeness of others in a highrise is sometimes uncomfortable and there have to be rules made about noise and other matters. So be it. I guess Glenfalloch is too large to be all that friendly. It has 95 units which gives it the population of a small country village. I don’t know many people in it as the only time some of us meet is at the AGM or the Christmas party, both of which are not all that well attended. The Board who manage the company – the place is under company title – are the best known. Peter is General Manager of the Board and keeps a firm hand on the management. Margaret is chair of the Board and is sometimes a smiling presence. Not that Peter doesn’t smile. Then there are the others that I know. Kevin who is next to me has been here for almost two decades. He is very quiet and is a mine of information and help when it comes to recalibrating TV sets. When I first got here, Helen who lived just above me, tried to establish a little community by having dinner with about five or six others in the flat. It lasted for a year or so and then faded away. We are still friends and I rent her garage. Some flats do not have garages as everyone did not have cars 50 years ago. I know very few others except by sight, usually in the lift. There is Lainey, the artist who lives on the ground floor, Robyn, the ex CSIRO worker also on the ground floor, another Robyn who lives on my floor and so on and on. We also have two exciting writers in our building, both related to that excellent bookshop in West End, the sister suburb to New Farm and connected umbilically to it by bus - the 199 certainly and either 196 or 197, both of which snort their stuff outside our building. The name of the bookshop is Avid Reader. Chrissie and her partner live on the ground floor. Chrissie has recently published her work, “Affection”. In my opinion it is an excellent work. Not for the prudish or the prurient. A very frank discussion of her own sexuality. A very good book. Ben Laws is the other author. His first work, ‘Family Law’, is a very amusing account of a Chinese family settling in Australia. Ben lives on the sixth floor with his partner. There are rumours around that he is leaving Glenfalloch. Probably our best known resident – I was going to say inmate – is David Hinchliffe. A City Councillor for the area, he is very active in all matters civic. He is also an artist (there seem to be a lot of them around and we have more than our fair share of art galleries in the New Farm area). Recently he exhibited in New York with some success. He is not running for re-election in the Brisbane City Council next year and is devoting himself full time to art.

While driving back home I became aware of the bubble effect of being in a car. It happens to me sometimes. Once you have closed the car door car, you are sealed off from the outside. For me, the effect of this is to be closed off from the outside world and to be in a bubble. Like most others, I turn on the radio, either to listen to music or the news (especially on Radio National). So there you are sailing along listening to the sound coming from perhaps 1000 or even 20,000 kms away. The outside world is just an illusion. Of course you have to watch where you are going otherwise illusion will become brutal reality. But I have the impression that I am just floating along in a silent world of my own. The outside world does not exist. This feeling is heightened if you are on a freeway where there is not much traffic. Actually it is a great feeling, almost euphoric. Think about it some time. While driving home and thinking of this, I was reminded of something that happened way back in South Africa while I was working for the Vatican Representative in that country. Archbishop Damiano had a chauffeur. It enhanced his stature. Sydney was his name and he was a man of colour. Anyway, we were tooling around somewhere in the service of His Grace in a very large Buick especially imported from the US also to enhance status. While doing so, we were listening to the radio. I made the casual comment about how wonderful it was to listen to someone who was so very far away. Well, Sydney looked at me in astonishment not knowing what I was talking about. But, he said, the voice is in the box, pointing at the radio. He actually believed that all the talking and music was somehow or other stored in that little box. I suppose it was quite natural for him to think so. He was fairly uneducated and simply could not conceive of the idea that there were all these millions of messages floating around in space and that all that one had to do was to reach out and snatch them. Or have a little box receive them. How much more confusing it would have been to have told him what really goes on in cyberspace these days. The great age of information in cyberspace has dawned. Trillions of messages are whizzing around us. All that one has to do it reach out and grab them. Why one should want to do that I don’t know. Much better to reach out and gently catch a butterfly. A slightly similar event occurred while I was driving in the same filthy large Buick in Natal. Chauffeur that time was a young African lad who had never seen the sea. As we came over a hill there was the vast Indian Ocean. One could quite clearly see that it was raining over the sea. The young lad looked at me. When I pointed this out to him he asked why was it that it was raining onto the sea. It had no need of rain. Only the land needed rain. What we have done to destroy the simpleness of the traditional people. I believe it’s called progress. So, let us progress to ‘home’, Glenfalloch. Such a Scottish name. Glenfalloch has been home for about 12 years. It is my 28th ‘home’. I sometimes wonder what the term home really means and am deeply worried about the homeless.

Working from the present backwards, my unit in Glenfalloch is my current home.Due to my very able advisor it is a pleasant one bedroomed place with a lounge, kitchen and bathroom. I face the garden and river on one side and Oxlade Drive on the other. But it is part of a block of flats. And a high rise feels like a hotel to me. It’s too impersonal and not grounded. I live alone in it which has it advantages and disadvantages. Previously I lived for the first time in a high rise in South Bank. As I lived with my wife and kids it was more of a home than here. It was also of better quality than here, was close to the city and to the cultural centre of Brisbane and had a better view of the river. But, it was still a high rise hotel. The huge Queenslander in Yeronga had been more of a home. It was close to a shopping centre, had a lovely garden with trees, a lawn and a swimming pool. Then, too, it had Ros and the kids. It was much more of a home. I will skip my home in Toronto and London from 1971 to 1975. They varied. The best of them was half a house overlooking the lake in Toronto. I had a partner, a lovely Quebecoise, Maryse. To an extent it was home as also was our place in London. But, it was not South Africa. In South Africa I lived for a while in a very poor white area of Johannesburg after I left the priesthood. For the first time I owned a house. It was mine. I shared it with Basil and Shirley Moore and their four children. It was the centre of much political activity. It was more a workplace than a home. Then there were the priest houses or presbyteries as they used to be called. I lived in them from 1950 to 1968. They were never a home to me. One lives with people with whom one does not necessarily get along, or on one’s own. They always belong to some institution. Home? No way. Which brings us back to 8 Goold St. West Bank, King Williams Town. Two adults and six kids in a tiny little two bedroomed house. A tough but fair father, a loving mother, five sisters. Was that home? Despite its size, you bet. I do not want to sound like the Family First Political Party in this country but I did have a good home. And at 83 years of age, I am a happy man. Glenfalloch with its sister building on the southside (Torbreck) is the oldest highrise in Brisbane. I guess that is a somewhat dubious honour as it is heritage listed and cannot be pulled down. I remember when I first visited New York in 1966 I was amazed to hear that many buildings there were replaced in 20 to 40 years. Building was always going on. I speak here of Manhattan. I wonder if Glenfalloch will still be standing in 50 years. Not that I will be around to know. As was usual for buildings at that time, it faces onto the street, Oxlade Drive. Its back faces onto the river. Brisbane only discovered its river in 1988 when the World Expo came to town. If anything it is now over enthusiastic about the river. So it was a bit of a shock on January 11 this year (my birthday in fact) when the floods arrived. Fortunately the floods only came up to the edge of

our great front/back garden. The entrance to underground garages had been sealed off with sandbags, so we were safe. By the way, we really do have a great garden complete with a rather cold swimming pool. One can only swim in it for about six months of the year. For some reason it is used by very few people. The same goes for the garden. It was this garden that swung me to make the decision to buy a unit here, a decision I do not regret. New Farm is one of the best areas in the City and is practically surrounded by water. New Farm Park is the gem in the centre. The Powerhouse is the centre of much avant garde entertainment. A market is held in its grounds every fortnight. A thoroughly good place to live in. Well served by public transport. One can get into the city by city cat in 4 minutes. You could walk along the river into the city in about 40 minutes from Glenfalloch. That is before the floating river walk was washed away by the floods of January. By the way the Yellow Tails that clutter up our river frontage were removed before the flood. Pity. A moment of great sadness. Glenfalloch is not a building of great beauty. People may love it, like its location, refurbish their units to make them very modern. But looking at the structure it is definitely not a pretty face. The riverside looks like a tall prison building with its long gangways and steps on both ends. When the back was painted about five years ago, an attempt was made to pretty it up a little by adding red railings. A big improvement. A happy jail. Plans are in place to improve the front of the building. Its face is somewhat featureless. To add to that a certain amount of rust is occurring in the windows and they are being replaced with aluminium ones. The front is soon to be painted as well. A facelift and a little botox and all will be well. She is not a handsome lady but she has her pride. Now for the people living in the building. When I first moved out of our beautiful house in Park Road, Yeronga to live in Southbank, I did not feel all that comfortable. Our huge Queenslander in Yeronga was a really magnificent piece of architecture complete with three large Moreton Bay Fig trees and small swimming pool. We had lived there for ten years and had brought up the kids there. They both went to Yeronga Primary and then moved onto State High. But in 1992 I was diagnosed as having coronary artery disease. When I asked Ros what she would do if I fell off my perch she said that she would like to move into a low maintenance flat near the city. So we looked for about a year and bought one in Southbank Apartments. Soon after that we sold the beach house in Moffat Beach – with great regret on my part – and bought another unit next to the one we had. They were rented for a while and then, one day when they were both vacant at the same time, Ros declared the stars to be aligned and the decision was made to move. Ros and Sarah promptly went to Singapore for a music event and I was left to pack. Almost 20 years later there are still boxes in the garage in Southbank marked “sundry”. Serves them right.