The clothes never made the man
Now I look back on my father's life during the time I've been in the world (from ages 33 to 79), I realise I've never known a man with so little vanity. He was a bit of a classic iconoclastic Aussie bloke who probably would have gone everywhere in thongs and shorts if he could. There's a photo of he and Mum in the lounge room of Gabo Place when we were all on our way out to the Fountain Inn. If I remember it correctly he's wearing these slacks with slightly flared legs and a tiny brown check pattern and a shirt that used to be his going out uniform, a snugly fitting, long sleeve cotton shirt made of soft cotton that was a delectable dark brown colour with muted orange buttons. David used to call it his 'body shirt'. When we were teenagers and used to wear the same thing over and over and he'd say 'when's the operation?' every time the opportunity called for it – like all his jokes. It meant we were wearing something so often it was lik