Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of the irreplaceable LD.
It’s also for Mum and Dad . . .
who may bear a passing resemblance
to the mum and dad on the following pages.
Contents
Dedication
One Driving
Two Yelling
Three International Playboys
Four The Devil’s Workshop
Five Carry On, Doctor
Six Site Supervisors
Seven Two Vs or Not Two Vs
Eight A Merry Little Christmas
Nine Metal Detectors and Elephant Shackles
Ten Rage against the Machine(s)
Eleven Aside Salad
Twelve Don’t Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before
Thirteen More than Just Mum and Dad
Epilogue Apples | Trees
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Attention Twilight Waters Residents:
We invite you to attend the nuptials of our two oldest residents, 97-year-old Dulcie Heatherton and 102-year-old Albert Zolski, today at 10am in the Beverley Whitstock Memorial Hall.
Alcohol-free fruitcake will be served promptly at 10.05am.
We wish Dulcie and Albert a long and happy union.
Thank You,
Management
ONE
Driving
I’ve been sitting in a parked car in the driveway for what feels like six days and rivulets of sweat are streaming uncomfortably down my back. The dash says it’s thirty-eight degrees outside and, as I’m now swimming in a puddle of my own perspiration, I think it’s a fairly safe bet that inside the car it’s fifty-plus. I chose not to start the car to turn on the air-conditioning because I worried this would make my parents feel rushed and, once again, I find myself regretting the decision.
The numerous groans and grunts of my mum, as she heaves herself into the car while clutching desperately onto the back of the passenger seat, suggest she’s in a no-holds-barred wrestling match with Andre the Giant. Dad just throws himself into the front and hopes for the best. Going by the sounds he makes, you’d swear he’s had to fold his body into quarters.
Like it is for so many of our elders, for Mum and Dad, getting into cars the normal way just isn’t possible. No matter how many times we might point out the handles invented to help people get into such ‘impossible’ vehicles, they remain invisible to my parents.
Mum turns white at the mere thought of getting into a car ‘twenty feet off the ground’. Her preferred tactic is to climb in headfirst towards the rear, then struggle to turn her whole body around to face the conventional direction. This often means her matronly bum is shoved awkwardly into the face of whichever unfortunate soul has drawn the short straw of sitting next to her. Usually my long-suffering partner, Jeff.
Meanwhile, for those like my dad, the seatbelt is the world’s trickiest invention. After settling himself into the front seat, Dad takes another twelve minutes to crack that mysterious code and plug the belt in. Even though sweat continues to pour down my face as we wait in the driveway, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me booked for driving with an unbelted passenger. I would never hear the end of it, despite the fact that, of course, it would’ve been his fault.
Dad’s belt locks up and, after twenty-five repeated attempts to rip it out of its holster by sheer force, it still refuses to yield. Why. Yank. Won’t. Yank. This. Yank. Bloody. Yank. Belt. Yank. Come? Yank. Got him!
