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One Christmas was so like another in those years around the sea town corner now that I can never remember whether it was 106 degrees in 1953 or whether it was 103 degrees in 1956.
Oh, the Christmases roll into one down the wave-roaring salt-squinting years of yesterboy. My hand goes into the fridge of imperishable memory and out come ... salads and sunburn lotions and a brief exuberant hiss of beer being opened and the laugh of wet-haired youths around a Zephyr Six. The smell of insect repellent and eucalyptus and the distant constant slowly listless bang of the fly wire door.
And resting on a formica altar waiting for 'ron [2] : the biggest pav [3] in the world, a magic pav, a cut-and-come-again pav for all the children in all the towns across the wide brown bee-humming, trout-fit, sheep-rich, two-horse country.
And the aunts, always the aunts. In the kitchen, on the black and white photographed beach of the past playing out the rope to a shared childhood caught in the undertow and drifting.
And some numerous uncles, wondering occasionally why they weren't each other, coming around the letterbox to an attacking field in a test match and then driven handsomely by some middle order nephew, skipping down the vowel-flattening pitch and putting the ball into the tent flaps on the first bounce of puberty.
[Note 2] 'ron -- short for "later on"
[Note 3] pav -- short for "pavlova", a dessert, a soft-centred merangue cake topped with whipped cream and fruit, named in honour of the great Russian dancer Anna Pavlova, who toured Australia and New Zealand in 1926.
MP3 audio of prose (1.3 Mbyte)
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