Saturday, January 29, 2005

Tuesday December 28 1971. 

We drove back to Perth on a perfect summer morning. I went to the beach. A slight breeze arose from the southwest and made its way across the water, ruffling the waves like a hand through hair.

I felt a little cold inside. I hadn’t felt like that for a long time ... a long time before the start of our journey. It was Kay, of course.

I swam with Danny. At midday we went back to the caravan for lunch.

For once, my uncle and aunt annoyed me with their eternal pleasantness. I couldn’t be bothered. I knew I was wrong to be annoyed, they were just the loveliest people on earth, uncle with his silly smile and aunt with her innocent laugh and the

Still, I was glad to get out. Danny stayed and watched the cricket.

I walked miles up the beach through the long, golden afternoon. I didn’t think of anything in particular. Just about how there were two thousand miles between Perth and Melbourne. And how typically fourteen-year-old it was to fall in love with a photograph, even if you have slept in the subject's bed.

The sun was low when I got back to the 'van. Dinner was waiting. I was hungry. The cricket had finished. Gavaskar (caught Chappell, bowled Lillee) made 38. Sobers (caught Stackpole, bowled Lillee) went out for 0.

I slept fitfully.


On the radio in the caravan:

Australia v the World XI from the MCG. Alan McGillivray in the booth.

is it time for a nap yet? i think so

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