LET’S DO LUNCH

My younger daughter used to have an imaginary friend called Monny. Whenever it was convenient she would blame Monny. She thought that she could get away with anything because Monny was always there to take the rap. Of course we just thought it was the sign of an active imagination, and as the youngest she could get away with murder anyway. We were actually upset when we realised that things were being broken and Monny hadn’t been round for a while. Our little girl was growing up.
One day last week I got a strange e-mail from a girl I used to go to school with. Her brother Rob had been in my class. To tell the truth I had all but forgotten about him, but her face is indelibily printed in my brain. I had only briefly gone out with her, Liz, but she was my first serious girlfriend. I say gone out when I really mean the opposite. She was from that stage when you walked home from school together and had a quick snog in the park half way. At school he’d always been the boy whose lunch money was most under threat, but I would like to make it clear that his lunch was never under threat from me, apart from anything else I wanted to stay on the good side of his sister, and anyway I soon found out that his Mum gave him Bovril sandwiches. It turns she was in Australia to on secondment to a city stock broker in Melbourne, (no doubt on some astronomical salary with six or seven zeros after a couple of large numbers.) She had somehow tracked me down, not that I’m a witness protection program or anything but as we haven’t spoken for about 15 years I was to say the least surprised.
I have arranged to see her for lunch.
The last few days have gone badly. I’ve been working with the assistant to the assistant to the sub-vice dogsbody on a little educational literary project that potentially promises to be a profitable little side line. Very exciting but if you can’t see anyone who can give their opinion or make any sort of decision what’s the point. Also the guy’s ‘aftershave’ smells like Carlton Brewery’s slops bucket. I’m not against a drink myself, on a warm day you understand, but I try to remain sober until lunchtime. I know I should be more excited, it’s a great opportunity. If this goes right I could be able to cut back on the actual teaching (although I enjoy it most of the time) and do other stuff. Unfortunately I just keep looking at him thinking – what’s so dreadfully wrong that you have to get pissed before work. The one thing that has gotten me through the week is the thought of seeing Liz again tomorrow.
I went to a school reunion once. At the time I was touring with of a well known recording artist, I won’t mention any names suffice to say she was a soap star before her pop music career. Everyone else had real jobs, builders, bankers, a lawyer, a nurse, the school bully Nick had even become a Policeman (Nick the Policeman not a bad name). I say I was touring with a well known recording artist because it sounds better than I carry the speakers for well known recording artist. Actually not everyone else had jobs: there were a couple unemployed, a couple of housewives and Claire Reynolds. Claire made a living by tying knots in pieces of string and attaching then to collages as well as constructing displays of pieces retrieved from peoples dustbins with labels attached like “comb missing three teeth found 3 June 1997 - Aston” just like museum exhibits from some far future archaeological dig. Her favourites’ were potato peelings that sprouted and then died under a film of furry mould. She said she never sold a piece to anyone who understood it – only to pretentious idiots who didn’t. This rudeness to potential clients had apparently given her a cult status and made her “collectable.” Anyway apart from Claire who was on a different planet, I didn’t feel anyone in the room had done better than I had, at least not in any way I envied. They may have had more money or a nicer house but I hadn’t sold out to the Man and I knew what was more important. Now perhaps because I was older and wiser the thought of seeing Liz, who I knew had done better than any of us made me very nervous. It was like I had let her down or something.
Liz had been my first girlfriend. Her opinion matters. If she thinks I am a waste of space there would be no one to blame, no imaginary friend called Monny, just me.

THE YARDSTICK

I’ve just brought a new rod. OK it’s not a new rod, but it’s like new, and new to me. It’s a 6’ #4 2/2 bamboo rod, perfect for fishing on my favourite mountain streams, even though being a 6’ #4 roll casting under trees or big line mends are difficult. It doesn’t come from a “name” manufacturer being instead assembled on old light brown blanks bought from Herter`s in the 1950’s by a guy in Nova Scotia called Richard. He’s added a nice cork handle and a modern reelseat plus “old” (although it all looks previously unused) hardware. The is rod was obviously assembled with half an eye on the beginner’s market but I like it’s medium action a lot and cast 50+ feet easily if overhanging branches allow which is all I need on the little streams where I intend to use it. Each section is exactly 36” long and because I bought it off e-bay (the world’s biggest yard sale) I’ve named it myself – it’s officially called The Yardstick.
It’s a simple fact of life that if you fish with a rod sooner or later you will break it. Accidents happen. You fall in a stream, you catch it in a car door, you get chased across a field by a bull and, (well I’ll tell that one another time.) The point is the only way not to break a fishing rod is to stop fishing with it and then it stops being a fishing rod anyway and becomes just an expensive stick. I saw an Orvis anniversary special once. It was new in “mint museum condition” – which is to say had never been taken out of the box, never assembled let alone fished. I think I was supposed to say “wow!” – but all I could think was what a waste.
You probably realise by now I enjoy bamboo rods. This wasn’t always the case. My first rod (thirty odd years ago now) was a second hand bamboo one; my older brother had a new fibreglass one, state of the art. I was really jealous. Still as I have admitted I am a teacher and new bamboo is expensive, out of my price range. I’ve a couple of old rods I get out once in a while but most the time I use graphite. It’s very “businesslike.” I reserve bamboo fishing for lakes, or larger water where there’s less climbing and scrambling, less chance of breaking them. I like to think I’m managing risk.
My favourite graphite cost me less than $150 new. It’s not the best casting rod, but is one of the best fishing rods. And yes, rod makers of the world, there is a difference. It’s not the sort of rod people aspire to, just a good cheap no fuss rod that works. It’s marketed by a mate of mine Mick Hall, for Jarvis Walker and it’s called a “Blackridge.”
I’m not a fan of expensive graphite for the following reasons:
a) They are too fast –that is to say they cast over the horizon but this can make setting the hook harder. I can’t see a size #16 Jetson’s Black Spinner at 70 feet, and if I could why would I want to be able to pull it straight out of a fish’s mouth anyway.
b) The difference between a middle priced rod and a top dollar rod is often only the warranty, and as I’ve already mentioned these guarantees aren’t always what they seem to be at the time.
c) They cost as much as a reconditioned bamboo rod like a Granger, and more than a Shakespeare, or South Bend – and that’s no contest.
I’m on a stretch of the Victoria River, right down by where it flows into the Cobungra. I’d camped the previous at the old hydro plant site on the Cobungra. I’m not sure if you are allowed to but if you’re far enough off the beaten track nobody is going to stop you. I guess at one stage it must have been possible to get into the bush there without too much drama or they couldn’t have put up the hydro place. Now all that’s left is the foundation slab, and the road has been reduced to a rough walking track you couldn’t take a 4 wheel drive down. It’s a nice day: warm, overcast, and virtually no wind. I normally fish this stretch with my $150 graphite special but today I’d decided on giving the new rod a workout.
The first stretch is tough fishing, tight and overgrown. I scambled over the rocks and waded through brambles, but the fishing rewards the effort. Browns live in this stretch, good fish that see very few anglers, and the nearest you get to matching the hatch is to tie on a #14 Royal Wulff before the first cast and snip it off again at the end of the day. It’s not the best water in the area, for example there are the three rivers up at Angler’s Rest but as the name implies Angler’s Rest can get a little busy.
The river here is small, full of food, cool and clears quickly after a little rain. It’s a favourite stretch of water for trout and anglers. It’s not a secret stretch, but I’ve never met another angler on it, upstream gets more attention but few are prepared to climb down the cliff to fish the lower section, below the waterfall. It’s the sort of place you mention to other anglers and they say, “yeah I know that stretch it’s one of my favourite small waters, but I haven’t been down there for a few years.” I still fish it regularly although the climb takes longer than it used to because I stop and have a breather on the way up. I know when I’m not prepared for the hike and the climb I’m getting old. So I make myself do it – it’s my yardstick.

ON THE ROCKS

I read in the paper that a researcher in Canberra has come up with a new technique for detecting breast cancer. From examining a single hair she can tell if the patient has cancer, even in the very earliest stages which have always been so difficult to detect by mammograms. As a man I have always felt that breast cancer came strictly under the heading of secret women’s business, along with anything else tested for using a lollipop stick, but even I can see what a useful piece of research this is. Further research is underway to see if other cancers can be detected from examining hairs. All that information in a single hair makes you think…
Men go bald - men die younger. So maybe if only I keep my hair healthy I will live longer. Up to now I’ve always felt that if my hair needed a few extra vitamins I’d dunk my head in a jar of vegemite. Now I’ll have to make an extra special effort to find the right shampoo. The problem is that I’ve never known if my hair was greasy or normal, if it needed aloe vera, jujube or a warm conditioner. Coming to think of it what is aloe vera? It’s all been another of those secret women’s businesses.
I hope all this doesn’t mean I’m going to have to become a sensitive new age guy and start grooming myself. The only redeeming feature I can find in all this is that I remember hearing years ago of the folic benefits of beer. So I’ve decided to spend more time in the pub - it’s a matter of life and death!
Of course my main problem with modern consumerism may just be related to my inability to make choices. When in the peace and quiet of a trout stream I can make a choice when it comes to a fly selection, when it comes to anything else I haven’t a hope, ask Vicky, or Penni, but preferably not both together.
My friend Hairy came round to my house the other afternoon. He had clearly been sniffing too much shampoo. Apparently he wanted me to know that he had left me his Orvis collection in his will, and could he have fifty bucks on account. Three weeks ago Hairy had owned a set of five (yes five) Orvis bamboo fly rods build between 1962 and about 1983 (worth several thousand dollars). Now he owns a cheap Japanese graphite copy of a real fly rod (worth less than the cost of a tram ticket to the porn shop where his old rods now lived.) I gave him $50 for the porn shop ticket, I figured I’d buy back his rods and give them back to him when he’d dried out.
Sometimes I think my life is a mess, and then Hairy comes round on the scrounge.
I first met Hairy at school, but we only became good friends when we discovered by chance we had gone to the same university. He was studying particle-physics. He got a first and for a while worked in a job so classified that not only did he have to de-list his phone numbers but he was forced to move and use a PO Box which was collected on his behalf by a man from the Department, all very John Le Carré. In short he was a brilliant mind, and a great friend. Now he was a shambling drunken mess and has difficulty holding down his job at the Dry Cleaners. His whiskey comes straight from the bottle; his life was on the rocks.
It’s very sad when someone you love fucks things up so spectacularly.
So I’m in the porn shop and the man gets me Hairy’s rods for $250. Either the porn shop guy is the cheapest bastard on the planet or he didn’t think they were genuine. I mean it they were genuine who’d let them go for $50 each. My favourite was an 8’6” HEH (#5 weight.) When new the varnish had been clear, now it had warmed into a handsome sunny yellow tined honey colour. The scratch marks (all minor) have thankfully not been expertly repaired, rather they had been left to suggest a history of past glory days, not scars or imperfections instead being more alike to the wrinkles on the face of a beautiful mature woman. It still casts tight easy to control loops, absolute perfection. In short I was holding the best, most beautiful and sexiest fishing instrument I ever seen. Perhaps the sexiest thing I had ever seen, well at least since my wife had stopped wearing her frilly french knickers - about 35 seconds after saying “I do.” $50 and Hairy would never remember if he sold it to me, might not even recognise it. I knew I couldn’t give it back to him, next time someone would realise what it was worth and give him enough money to kill himself.
Anyway the whole thing made me think about my ethics. Apparently I can cheat on my wife but not my mate.
Is cheating the betrayal of liking just being with someone else, holding their hand when you walk in the woods, giving them a kiss, wanting them? Is it all OK if you don’t have sex? If you do have sex what then? Is the sex the cheating or the deceit about it?
Guilt can eat into you like a cancer, and it doesn’t matter how often you wash your hair.

AN UNEXPECTED PARTING

My father always told me that I would reap whatever I sowed. A strange sentiment from a sheep farmer! Still there is much truth in an old shepherd's wisdom, apart from the bit about a red sky of course. Downtown a red sky at night means either: A) that the brothel’s open late or B) someone’s trying an insurance job down at the warehouse.
At the end of the street is different kind of a sign. It reads “Children drive slowly.” To tell the truth most of the children in the street don’t drive at all except in billy carts which they drive bloody quickly. The sign is just a request. Perhaps like my fathers’ comments about harvest time it’s actually a sort of warning. Still slow driving is the way to go in our street because it’s an unsealed road. Fast cars leave a trail of dirt in the air. The washing line regularly gets clouds of dust sprinkled over the clean clothes so that nobody in our road has anything really clean to wear except Ron and the Magnificent Gelatti who have a tumble dryer. The tumble dryer was a peace offering by Ron to Gelatti as if to say, I’m sorry I lied about not having a job, but at least I’ve still got a credit card. Ron actually does have a job now – actually a business as a supplier to the local restaurants of “home made” ice cream and earning himself the nice little packet as well as the nick name Mr. Whippy. He has put on kilos, most of his grey suits don’t fit anymore but he doesn’t seem bothered by it now having a set of navy monogrammed tee-shirts with his business’s name on.
Since the death of Mrs. Kaye on the corner, the road has seen an endless stream of visitors coming to view the house before the auction. They drive up and then back down the street, trying to get a feel for the neighbours while, annoying everyone by throwing up clouds of road dust. I have taken to sitting in a rocking chair on the veranda with my guitar singing the blues. To be more specific the “Old woman died across the way - they say the house is cursed – I don’t know - blues.” The real estate agent sent me a letter asking me to stop and asking if we had considered telling our relatives about the opportunity to move closer. If they think that’s a good idea they must be surreal estate agents. They certainly either haven’t met my relatives or for people in their line of work have a surprising disregard for property values.
Penni came over today after everyone had gone. She has had a letter from Venus telling her to put the house on the market. I gave her tea, sympathy and the details of my contact at the estate agents.
“Well we saw this coming.” I pointed out.
“But I still haven’t got anywhere to go.”
“B’s looking for a flat mate.” I suggested.
“That’s all I need, out of the frying pan into an oncoming train.”
“An interesting expression which reminds me of this parlour game . . . .
Now normally I’m not one to withhold advice when I’m asked. Well it’s not actually advice it’s more opinions I give, that way I’m never wrong. Perhaps because my own life’s in such a mess I have a subconscious desire to try to make a difference to someone else’s. Still with Penni I knew things were a little too close to focus clearly.
Just then there was the sound of a car in the drive. Unexpected visitors being a rare occurrence in our neck of the woods I went to the window to find out who it could be. It was Venus. My life flashed before my eyes like scenes from a Brian Rix farce. I almost asked Penni to take her clothes off and wait in the broom cupboard for me to knock twice to signal the all clear. Instead I just said a simple “It’s Venus.”
Penni ran out of the back door.
After a brief pause I went to the door to let Venus in.
Venus it transpired had heard that Penni and I had become friends and had come to see me for advice. I restrained from asking her who told her that. Of course she didn’t ask for advice she just wanted me to confirm to her that she was being reasonable and to tell Penni as much next time I saw her. I don’t know why but I had difficulty maintaining eye contact, instead I kept glancing over to the broom cupboard.
The feeling didn’t last long, because Penni came round and in the front door yelling a “hello, anyone home,” greeting, but while I had the feeling it was somewhat disturbing.
Penni and Venus exchanged awkward “hellos,” and proceeded to have the most embarrassingly ill at ease conversation since David Hicks dropped into the Kirribilli House to borrow a cup of sugar while the security staff were on their lunch hour.
The three of us sat round my kitchen table turning our coffee mugs round to create a little borealis effect in each one. Luckily I remembered that I had nothing else to do so made my excuses and left to not do it elsewhere.
When I got back both Venus and Penni had unexpectedly left, or transformed themselves into a sticky yellow note on the kitchen table saying, “Thaxs for the coffee See ya soon.”
My mind was full of questions: What did it mean? Did the two leave together? How soon? The questions hung in the air like the dust trail behind a really fast billy cart.
I realised one thing was true, I needed some good advice, and I already knew what that advice would be.
I looked out of the window, there was a red sky. At this time day, at this time of year that can mean only one thing – it was nearly harvest time.