27th December 2023.
In the land of the yellow-winged Honeyeater it’d been a hearty man-hug. A reunion amongst reunions on a whistle stop. “I never thought I’d ever see you again!” said old best mucker Son-of-Calcutta, incredulous, before giving the missus a mightier hug still.
Escaping his ‘heavenly’ forty-sixth floor Southbank ‘dog-box’ shared with a toy poodle and an Amazonian parrot, for a change Son-of-Calcutta busied himself in Cockatoo, a place true to name. He attacked al fresco spit-roast lamb with a serious, electric carving saw. My advocated, jazzy, soul-warmth, Gregory Porter album ‘Christmas Wish’ the accompaniment.
Later, not so very far away in ‘Straya’ terms, in Melbourne’s western suburbs where gulls stretch their wings, the grasshopper made safety despite the weight of caboodle drool. Instead, the dog sized me up and came begging moist croissant morsels. My Aussie citizen son wagged a finger. “Dad, DON’T feed the dog.”
And there we had it. I was of the age of taking orders from mutt and my youngest. The only orders I now gave were confined to menus. Led by son and daughter-in-law the missus and me were in the thick off a week’s urban culinary crawl.
Spoilt rotten I counted off the exotic eateries on licked fingers: Mexican tacos in Kensington (Melbourne not London SW10), Chinese hot pot in Footscray, Fusion Thai in CBD, Sushi in Albert Park, Borek and Gözleme at South Melbourne market. True, Yum Cha chicken feet in Docklands weren’t quite my cup of tea. But, from Yarraville to Shadowfax Winery, pizza was gorgeous. And I couldn’t get over the joy of a Williamstown croissant.
A bit of after dark exercise could only assist my distended tum.
At the Yarra River and Hobsons Bay confluence my son and me mooched the Newport side’s waterfront park path. Encouraging the dog do its pre-slumber poo. Of the already snoozing black swans none bothered to untuck a head from wings. Above, in the star-spangled firmament, Virgo was arse about tit and the Big Dipper appeared to have come to grief. Suddenly my son called out the elephant in the room. “Can’t believe you’ve plunged the planet for some mouldy suitcases!”
Shy of the West Gate Bridge, a container heavy leviathan did a nifty three point turn in the shipping lane before docking in reach of the wharf cranes. “Our stuff could’ve been aboard a beast like that,” I said. “But honestly, we’re here to visit you bunch. Really we are. I love being Grandpa… Can you help next week get the stuff out of storage?”
My son snorted…
The choice the missus and me made to downsize from the Antipodes to Guernsey had been knee-jerk. And in return for a deep-frozen rooster, the missus’ Croatian colleague, Daniela, tall, long haired and full of grace, whom I named the Afghan Hound, had helped pack the last trappings of a Melbourne life: a paper shredder and three average sized lumps of stuffed luggage – old paperwork, vitamin tablets, tarnished cutlery, worn shoes and clothes, sentimental farewell cards and my favourite stripy cloth shopping bag, amongst other things. Then the ‘Send my Bag’ people went and apologised that they didn’t deliver to Guernsey.
Happily the woe-is-meez got given sanctuary. In the unused garage, save for it being an urban fox pissoir, of our friend the Muscovite (the lady once starstruck by Test umpire Kumar Dharmasena over a Methi Malai). Sanctuary, however, proved short-lived. Both her possum adored weatherboard bungalow and garage about to be flattened to accommodate a new build, plus a rentable adjoining one, our gubbins, as with possum and fox, had to go somewhere else PDQ.
Hence fate had our baggage languish for four and a half years in a Clayton super secure storage facility. Off a traffic thrubbing arterial. Part of the tarmac tagliatelle boom sprawl.
The missus hadn’t been idle about the matter. She did implore the storage bods to quote shipment to our sea rock. 7,000 quid they said. And without the shredder? Still £7,000.
“Wolololol waw WAW waw. Ayayayayaya waw WAW waw,” incanted the missus.
“The Good, The Bad and The Ugly?” I correctly guessed. We believed we were dealing with cowboys.
Yet, the gross amount sat and niggled. And niggled. “Be cheaper to fly to Oz and pick the stuff up ourselves.” An idle quip by me before popping out to the local St Peter Port Co-op last February. But…but… we would get to hug our toddler granddaughter…
The dog having performed we returned to my son’s home.
Where, to end day six of a mere thirteen, clinging to the veranda grapevine, sticks held tight in its cute ringtail, a possum planned a nest. A notion put paid to by broom handle. Not every prospective Melburnian builder gets their way despite others embracing success.
Plumping for PT convenience and leaving behind pigeons, myna birds and sparrows devouring a chucked sarnie on Flinders Station platform 8, me and the missus made a laminated rendezvous. With the Muscovite and Dr Zee.
After a couple of tram stops, up La Trobe Street we went. Arm-in-arm with the missus, the Muscovite almost floated on high heels. So proud she was. A learning curve more sketchy than endured on Luna Park’s Big Dipper. Growls, cajoles and wheedles turned memory. The hard hat of property development in back of cupboard. The fruit of labour, a spanking new home. Concrete over timber frame. Ceilings, high-vaulted. Two storeys. Outer infant jasmine hedging. The old weatherboard and mature garden, a mere drawing on the wall.
Tagging along behind the ladies, me and Dr Zee.
A smidge past 7pm, in the cosy fug under Singers Lane, the missus and me clinked glasses of Chivas Regal and mixer. Ice rattled. The Muscovite had lucked bonza bar seats at our past favourite spot: Bird’s Basement. A chic music venue in the Melburnian bowels. On stage, the Paco Lara Flamenco Trio. Spanish guitars and castanets. A magnificent meld.
Callused fingertips once numbing sensitivities, gentlemanly Dr Zee, anaesthetist of repute, bemoaned the abandonment of his own guitar for the Scottish bagpipes. Not good being unable to feel patients’ lines before the necessary sleepy oblivions. Tonight his fingers waggled air. Imaginary strings. Ghost frets.
“So what else is new,” I asked as, after the show, the Muscovite drove us through the waking clubland strip where the girls, more flesh than fabric, stomped and pranced to nightclub doors. Lads leered and cheered. While narrowing-eyed bouncers appraised.
“I’ve bought a Rabbitwoman dressed like those Sheilas.”
Oh, the art-savvy! A prized Gillie and Marc. They of wanton Rabbitwoman and penile Dogman. Resin and bronze sensual sculptures. Animal heads on svelte human bodies. Biggest thing on the New York art scene EVER apparently. Created in Sydney’s Botany heart. Within a gurt, redundant 1950s toy factory. Though this, the Muscovite warned, was likely to be dwarfed by where we’d stashed our belongings.
About which the missus was again proper cheesed off. $180 charge for two workers to bring three luggages to us seemed a lot.
Come pick up day reception offered nada human face nor body. Instead, a touch screen. To tap in a given reference number. Then the personal what-have-yous. Before placing face in crosshairs for mug shot and scanning driving licence. Lucky the computer said ‘yes’ to Guernsey. Everything okey-dokey our ID cards dropped from a slot. Only then were we allowed to ring the bell for attention.
Which came in the form of bow-legged, sixty-something Peter holding an A4 print out and two hi-vis gilets. “Put these on and follow me,” he urged. We walked a narrow path through a warehouse the size of Herm. “You’re moving to the UK? That’s amazing.”
‘We’ve moved already,” the missus confessed.
Peter seemed baffled.
“But not to the UK. Guernsey,” I enlightened.
Bafflement was by topped by furrowed brow. “Is that Europe?”
“Channel Islands. They’re part of Great Britain. Used to be part of France,” I said, possibly complicating things.
Peter was utterly enthused. “That’s totally amazing! But Europe’s so great, isn’t it? Lots of little countries all huddled together, like Greece. I’ve never been. We’re a bit out of the way here. I’d love to go sightsee Europe. My wife and I’ve bought a caravan but we’ll only drive it around Straya. Got my retirement all planned.” He pushed phone buttons. Time passed.
Until a fort-lift whizzed its arrival. A padlocked steel shipping container balanced. After it was set down Peter took a key from out his pocket. It didn’t fit. “Sorry, guys. Wrong box.” He and fork-lift driver pored over the print out. “Argh,” Peter groaned.
“F-ing hell, mate,” said the driver.
“Oops,” I said, thinking the missus and me were getting value for money.
The offending box was reversed at speed. Back from whence it came. Into a time and space continuum. It started to rain. “This is unexpected,” said Peter.
I received an enquiring text message from my son sat in the car park on which menacing cameras were trained t’other side of the razor-wire topped perimeter fence.
A whine signalled the fork-lift’s eventual return. The key fitted. Allowing for yet another reunion. “Is that all you’ve got?!” Evidently Peter was shocked.
As was I at our petering itinerary. Almost end of list, the working farm-cum-petting zoo. But bollocks was it in tamed bush country. Plus the exhibition of my inner chimp had spectators. A quartet of straw-necked ibis in the upper branches of a dead eucalypt.
The ostrich loitered in the tree’s sparse shade. And, by gum, I wanted a close up snap. The bird obliged. Nipping my index fingertip. Just like that. Quick as a blink. Teach me to go AWOL from my minders: the missus and my toddler granddaughter. Better sticking to gentle dog walks.
Finally, huggy family farewells and promises of return made and dog licks wiped at the maxi-taxi door, we sat at the airport, nibbling on yet another shared, bestest croissant. When an unmistakable profile whisked past: the Afghan Hound? What were the odds? “Daniela! DANIELA!!” First out the blocks, the missus set off in pursuit. Once over the flabbergasted I received a fulsome boob graze and cheek-peck.
“How was the rooster?” I enquired, stuck for anything else to say.
“Went down the gullet pretty quick… Wow. Don’t often come to the airport. But I’m off with a hen party to Noosa. WOW! YOU TWO! WOW!! Never though I’d ever see you again.”
“Someone else has said that,” I grinned.
Such is Providence. Life had come full circle.
1398 miles from Melbourne, Alice Springs and Mount Isa bisected at 4,000 feet, and headed for Bandar Seri Begawan en route to St Peter Port, the missus proffered a further box. This one little, airport purchased: dear Brunetti twee eclairs. I chose. Picking up tenderly between thumb and digit blue with bruise.
“Enjoy hubby mine, we’re still on holiday!”
To that, I could only cite, Gregory Porter: “‘Til angels say amen”.
Illustrations and text © 2023 Zum Beamer/Charles Wood.
Zum Beamer 
Delightful. As always, dear scribe.
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