We've decided to move our Australia Day celebrations to Saturday.
We need more time - people have to travel to see us these days, and
mid-week doesn't seem very festive somehow.
So on Saturday the usual suspects will arrive by train for a long, raucous afternoon celebrating all things Aussie.
Last year I cooked corned beef, and fortified by immense quantities of
Australian beer and wine, our guests proceeded to entertain us all for
hours. Everyone had been instructed to bring a contribution to
the cultural bill of fare, and show-offs all, they rose to the occasion
magnificently.
Geoffrey (who is that rare double, a Vietnam Vet, and a NIDA graduate)
read to us from CJ Dennis' Songs of the Sentimental Bloke. " 'er
name's Doreen" he began - so nervous, he refused to raise his head from
the book. So he never knew that he had created the sort of moment
actors dream of - a totally mesmerised audience, locked in the magic of
the moment. I love to hear The Bloke read aloud - it's not
something to be silently read, and as Geoffrey spoke he had us all
believing that Doreen was the most ravishing creature to dance across
our imaginations.
Anne Summers read The Man from Ironbark in the broadest of strine,
clutching her throat, as she acted out the villainous assault by the
flash Sydney barber on the bloke from the bush.
Susan Mitchell regaled us with a Sunday School chorus from her
childhood, the general thrust of which was "I'd rather be a little
thing going up, than a big thing coming down", accompanied by a set of
actions that have no place in a family newspaper, but had us all
howling with laughter.
John Hughes had found a wonderful poem for me by David Campbell, called
Mothers and Daughters. Daughter Anne had only recently left for
London last Australia Day, and the sense of her absence was so strong I
could barely get through it - but the words were a comfort, at a time I
really needed them.
Warwick and Murray had promised a "tableau", which mysteriously failed
to materialise on the day. Maybe this year. Murray is a
Production Designer for film and television. He has exquisite
taste - marred only by an eccentric mama who persists in
self-publishing bodice rippers with extremely explicit sex scenes, to
Murray's great chagrin, and the infinite amusement of the rest of us.
Guests who arrive without a party piece are forced to read aloud from
our collection of John Laws poetry until they beg for mercy.
Perhaps this year I'll read something from Peter FitzSimon's
Kokoda. Mr. S is being deeply secretive about his plans.
I'm biding my time, but I intend to worm it out of him. Is he
going to star in the tableau, I wonder? Or worse, perhaps he's
going to read from Murray's mama's latest extravaganza.
I hope he is going to keep his clothes on. Suddenly John Laws sounds like a very good idea.
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Change of Life 
