Beer o'clock at 6 Gabo Place
Nothing too deep or philosophical on Frank this time – as we all know he wasn't a deep or philosophical man.
But he loved beer. Enough of it was consumed in this house;
to fill the Mediterranean.
And among the most memorable were drunk right here;
Yes, for those who were there, there's something wrong with this picture. That big grey outdoor area next to the grass is new. There used to be a legendary in ground pool which is as pivotal a part of my childhood as my family and friends and which I remember being dug out and built with perfect clarity , right down to the rock the size of a Mini Minor they found when they dug out the deep end.
I also remember my parents building the stone wall that surrounded the pool on two sides with their own four hands, and though it merely seemed like something grown ups did back then, now I look back it was an astounding achievement for a housewife and a spare parts salesman.
When Dad got older and started to either select memories that suited him or just get them wrong, he was once whinging to Wendy about all the work he put into that pool and how nobody ever got in it. I quickly corrected him, reminding him of the endless hours I spent in it every summer – more than anyone else, if I recall.
David was never as much of a swimmer as I was, I used to just jump up and down from the deep end floor to the surface for a breath for what felt like days at a time, Dad was often too busy doing something else and the weather had to be like Hades for mum to get near the water – when she did she did a mild breast stroke from the shallow end steps to the deep end bench and back again no more than three times.
During one of Sydney's apocalyptic bushfires (1994 as far as I remember), we were all just standing around in the pool listening to sirens as far as you could hear, the entire sky filled with wisps of orange smoke.
Anyway, when Dad did enjoy the fruits of his labours and get in the pool there was usually beer involved. One of his tricks was to open two and leave them at each set of steps (the same ones mum swam between) so as to expend the least amount of energy before a beer was within reach again.
But more memorable was the time he was floating around on one of the water beanbags with a stubby balanced right on his beer gut. There's a photo somewhere I wish I had, but as it predates the digital era I'm sure it's in an album or box somewhere.
But he loved beer. Enough of it was consumed in this house;
to fill the Mediterranean.
And among the most memorable were drunk right here;
Yes, for those who were there, there's something wrong with this picture. That big grey outdoor area next to the grass is new. There used to be a legendary in ground pool which is as pivotal a part of my childhood as my family and friends and which I remember being dug out and built with perfect clarity , right down to the rock the size of a Mini Minor they found when they dug out the deep end.
I also remember my parents building the stone wall that surrounded the pool on two sides with their own four hands, and though it merely seemed like something grown ups did back then, now I look back it was an astounding achievement for a housewife and a spare parts salesman.
When Dad got older and started to either select memories that suited him or just get them wrong, he was once whinging to Wendy about all the work he put into that pool and how nobody ever got in it. I quickly corrected him, reminding him of the endless hours I spent in it every summer – more than anyone else, if I recall.
David was never as much of a swimmer as I was, I used to just jump up and down from the deep end floor to the surface for a breath for what felt like days at a time, Dad was often too busy doing something else and the weather had to be like Hades for mum to get near the water – when she did she did a mild breast stroke from the shallow end steps to the deep end bench and back again no more than three times.
During one of Sydney's apocalyptic bushfires (1994 as far as I remember), we were all just standing around in the pool listening to sirens as far as you could hear, the entire sky filled with wisps of orange smoke.
Anyway, when Dad did enjoy the fruits of his labours and get in the pool there was usually beer involved. One of his tricks was to open two and leave them at each set of steps (the same ones mum swam between) so as to expend the least amount of energy before a beer was within reach again.
But more memorable was the time he was floating around on one of the water beanbags with a stubby balanced right on his beer gut. There's a photo somewhere I wish I had, but as it predates the digital era I'm sure it's in an album or box somewhere.
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