My childhood was the kind that city kids only dream about. My mates and I swam with eels in the creek, went fishing for mud crabs and hung out on the beach like Robinson Crusoes waiting to be rescued. In winter, we kicked a footy on an oval with poplar trees for goal posts; in summer, we played cricket on a bare concrete pitch. At night, we lit bonfires on the rocks and barbecued flathead while our fathers drank themselves legless at the pub.
Around Christmas it would rain for weeks on end. The drains would overflow, washing raw sewage into the sea. But I liked it: after a big downpour, the pavements and parks gleamed like glass and shrikes and noisy miners filled the trees, feeding on slow-moving insects. The travel magazines in Mum’s bookcase would curl at the edges while bloated leopard slugs crawled across the floor and up the asbestos sheeted walls of my bedroom.
Today, I’m over at Newtown Review of Books writing about John Dale’s new novella, Plenty. Interested? Click here to take a look.