Tower Bakers

Tower Bakers proves that limited space is no obstacle to creating a distinct, original feel. Interesting curiosities and books - including a few withdrawn library books - start drawing you in the second you step off the footpath outside this quiet, suburban row of shops, through the door of possibly the smallest baker shop you’ve been in. Upon entering you immediately find yourself standing, ready to pay (and even tip some stray coins into the piggy bank), at the business end of the counter. The wise man standing behind says hi and gives you space to peruse the simple yet original cabinet selection of toasted sandwiches and slices for sale, and keepsakes that are not. With the clock struck 12 o’clock-National-Radio-news playing softly on the wireless behind the counter, I order a rissole & gherkin toasted sandwich, and a Coffee Supreme coffee. Plopping down in a cute, blue wooden seat at the end of the sole communal table (through the large front window I also spy a small outdoor table and stools on the pavement), I reach for a library book. A cheerful British woman standing at the counter has struck up conversation with my wife about our baby boy’s toothy smile, and, with our lunch up, assumes the role of popup waitress, passing a plate the few feet from counter to customer: “who’s having the rissole sandwich?”, she asks. “We both are”, I answer rye-ly. Just because there is no room on the small plate for anything other than the sandwich (space is at a premium), doesn’t mean that presentation can’t still be everything - pressed into the top of the sandwich, like your nana’s pressed flowers, is the ornamental garnish from the counter. As you’d expect, the bread is good - they’ve been perfecting it here for 20 years, and the rissole, cheese, gherkin and tomato makes for a balanced meal all round. The wise man, sensing our wish to just sit and read our book & newspaper for a few moments before chowing down, had previously been out back brewing us a fine cup of jo.

Oldsmobile

Both my grandmas drove pretty cool cars, but for different reasons. One drove a brand-new red Ford Laser hatchback, and the other drove a mint condition black Volkswagon Beetle. My cool gran was the one who drove the laser, because she took more of an interest in us kids, or at least showed it more. She took us out to things. I don’t remember nana ever doing that, however, I do remember climbing into the back seat of her black beetle, the smell and texture of the grey vinyl upholstery, and the interesting purr of the boxer engine behind me. So maybe nana did take us out in her car, but I don’t remember ever going anywhere with her. Gran took us out in the Laser. She took us to the Mercury Theatre to see ‘Fiddler on the Roof’, and told my brother and me off for clowning around in the foyer (the only time I can remember her telling me off). She took us to work with her at the haberdashery shop and bought us orange stanley knives and meat pies from the shops next door. She drove us to the port to board the cruise ship for Sydney when we moved to Australia.
My nana lived across town in the posh suburbs. She was hard to get to. She served tomato goulash and toast for lunch from her tiny kitchen that smelt of cigarette smoke. At her place there were only boring pictures of birds on the walls, and nothing on TV, but in the garage lay this black beauty. Probably not a major head turner back then, other than the fact that it was pristine black, but definitely a novelty to me. Years later when it was sold I vaguely remember it being snapped up with some artful enthusiasm by someone. The Laser was pre-loved and sold. Gran hung on to for a long time tho, proud of the fact that she provided the power steering.

4 poems

A movie theatre foyer is a peculiar place to sit down for a coffee. There is a vibe and a hubbub in the room but everyone is standing - no one can chat for long because they are all coming or going.
Sentences are very short - just the headlines please - and people skip gaily from one topic to the next until the stone can skip no more and drowns, then they turn to the person to their right.
Everyone has a person to their right.
Conversations are nimble on their feet - everyone knows that to sit down is social suicide, to get bogged down in unnecessary detail and stall.
That is why the chairs, while neatly laid out, remain bare.
This person has their arse to me

Mission Bay has had the life frozen out of it to the point where it emits a faint glow onto the cold, dank air.
It has taste when no one is there - not even the famed Movenpick ice-cream shop can boast a crowd.


View at Langs Beach

Floor to ceiling window pane
Framed in A4
Acres of blue sky, inky white clouds cast giant seaweed shadows on turquoise seas,
Moving quickly underwater like rays
Solitary island sits atop vertical ripple sea
That fills up lower third of frame
Like they taught me to do at art school


Rain

Why can't a beautiful day include rain?
Rain is beautiful
It makes a noise to let you know it's here to help
Why do we despise the rain, and
devise so many ways to shun it -
The umbrella, the window wiper, the parker, the house -
That we forget to embrace it?
To feel it
To have it straight from the source
Before it winds up in the gutter

Go outside for a shower

Afloat

On Saturday I went sailing on my dad’s 30-foot yacht. I made the boat sink, but I can’t remember why. The half-submerged sails continued powering the boat forward, and as the last of the rig slipped beneath the surface, I somehow remained standing on something solid, yet I knew I eventually had to jump off. Before I leapt, the water seeping through my trouser pocket to my iPhone, I dunked my head and looked through my expensive sunglasses for sharks. Sure enough, one was waiting below near the hull. This morning, drifting back into consciousness, I felt disappointed that my iPhone was ruined.

I do everything in my dreams except see a shrink to get my reality interpreted.

The new 40

I remember being so excited about getting a new digital watch for my 10th birthday that during school class that day I skipped out to the toilet just to adore and polish my snazzy new piece of technology. 30 years on and I'm feeling a bit the same way about the new analogue watch my brother and his wife gave me last week for my 40th birthday - except I can polish it whenever I like. It feels good to wear a watch again, especially one that I was given as a birthday gift. In some ways I don't feel much different at 40 to how I did when I was 10 - I'm the same person now as I was then; it's all been in there since day dot. I'm able to feel things just as much, I've hung on to my childlike sense of humour, and I haven't deadened my sensitivity.

I considered not having a 40th party - I'm not usually the party-throwing type - but I'm glad I stepped up and threw one, and that my wife did such a good job of making it happen. Turning 40 is an achievement, and should be marked with a celebration. Having survived your tumultuous twenties and thirties you've well and truly made it to middle age. Victor Hugo said that "forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age", which would suggest that between 40 and 50 is a sort of no-man's-land (it's most definitely a no-adolescent's-land!), in which I think I'll enjoy being stuck for a decade. Who wants to fit in anyway?

Hooligans

Standing on Queen Street today I heard behind me a loud, cheerful commotion. Turning to look I was surprised to see an army of about 200 school children in navy blue uniform marching up behind me. Mildly relieved, I received the all clear to cross the road, and as I began to do so the children broke into song, momentarily transforming the pavement outside Smith & Caugheys into a Wembley football stadium stand. I continued diagonally across the road, safely out of the way of this giant busking ensemble, glancing back over my shoulder to take in the whole experience. Overtaken with the excitement of a buzzer command, and abandoning their orderly chant for lively yelps and squeals, the children began running across the road, breaking ahead of the pack like water spilling over rapids. Predictably, from across the road a bystander was busy reducing it onto his one-inch movie screen.

Poems

Mornings

I love mornings, everything is fresh and brand new
The cool air is latent and filled with possibility
Sunlight pierces the shivering particles
It’s the same old sun that’s been going around for ever
But a brand new sunrise for today
Not like reheated leftovers – although they have a magic all their own
But like an old pair of jeans that have shrunk in the wash and have to be broken in all over again

Fire

I made a fire
In the house
In the fireplace
The place of fire

I built a fire
Out of building wood
Wasn’t sure if I built the fire
Before or after I lit the match

I made a fire
In the fireplace
Out of wood
My house is made of wood so I call it my tree hut
And I call my tree hut my large bird box
It's where I keep my moa.

Printing

I have seen the printing press come and go
All the while I’ve been writing in pen
The pen and the printing press both use ink
I am a printer
At school I was taught printing
Then running writing
Reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic
Alliterate Always
- Two different sounding A's
Followed by a different number of l’s
All as in ‘always’, not as in ‘alliterate’
I never stopped learning English.