through the gate

It was utterly pissing with rain on Monday and Cityrail was doing trackwork. Rob dropped me off at Wollongong station. The Christian cafe was closed so I couldn’t even score myself a bloody coffee. Hopped a bus to Waterfall, then a train to Town Hall and another on to North Sydney. By then the rain had stopped and the sun came out so I decided to walk the rest of the way. Where was I going?

Through a magical gateway still glistening with fresh rain drops. Back about twenty-five years in time, in fact, to hang out with some people I have barely clapped eyes on since.

Peggy, Mike, Cat and Andrew

Caroline, Peggy, Cat and Annie

Tania and Mike

Annie and Caroline

Andrew and Mia

The grass was damp so we went down the road to Peg’s mum’s place which, to me, will always be known as Lytton Street. An Aladdin’s cave stuffed to the rafters with dubloon-filled wooden legs, musty spell books of long forgotten wizards, fallen idols and the bejewelled tiaras of ancient queens. There’s a map to Atlantis in there somewhere alongside the spear of Longinus and the Ark of the Covenant. I spent a lot of time in that house way back when. I remember when Peg and I spray painted a jungle all over the walls of her room. Her being obsessed with the Beatles and me being obsessed with her step brother… I could tell stories but I’m not gonna.

The table was piled high with food and we adults sat around to eat and talk. Kids swarmed down the halls like a tribe of chattering monkeys. Peg has four, Mike and Tania three, Andrew and Adele one and Annie two. Peg’s daughter is about the age that Peg and I were when we first started hanging out.  I looked at the girl and thought Jesus! Don’t do any of the shit we did! Too late, said Peg. it’s already started.

Something utterly fascinating to me came up in the course of conversation. There’s a bit of my own personal mythology that goes like this — most writers I know always wanted to be writers. I didn’t. I can’t remember when or why I started writing. I came late to it, feeling my way in through a gauntlet of graphic design. Bullshit, said both Peggy and Andrew. You always wrote. Peg says she can remember me being proud of being good at English. Sitting on the bed in my room showing her stories I’d written. When she didn’t get excited about them, I’d screw them up and throw them in the bin! I have no memory of this at all. And Andrew actually remembers the name of a novel I started writing! Dunno how old I was, but it was way before my 20s. I can’t remember when I started writing because I never started. I always did it. I am so not the special little snowflake conjured in that dodgy old mythology of mine!

Guys, it was fabulous to see you all. Lets not leave it so many years till we do it again, huh?