By the time I reversed back up the hill to collect them, they were lost in a herd and sweat-faced, rabid males. I loaded them into the car as they coo-ed and giggled their delight, while the boys all protested at how they were better men than I was, and wanted to fight me for them and god knows what… and the journey continued. This was not to be the last time that some incident of the kind occurred.
    After dropping Janie, Sammy insisted that she not be last again, and then had to traverse back, past my final destination in Moorabbin as I took on the full length of Warrigal Road, Elgar Road and Williamson’s Road to Templestowe, dropping Cherie who was still giggling, and then retraced my steps across Bell Street and down to Altona and then, finally, way after midnight, made my own way back across the city to home.
    Something was definitely going to have to be done about this.

Another shaky step toward literary maturity came with a book called The Scientists by Eleazar Lipsky, both book and author completely forgotten these days. It was a very serious novel about a medical researcher who discovers a miracle drug and with it fame and fortune, only to have it all collapse when he is accused of stealing another man’s work. At issue is the old professor who toiled for decades, established the laboritory, got the grants, kept the research alive, and got as near as dammit to the answer, and along comes this young upstart who takes over the data and makes a sudden serendipitous breakthrough. Who, then, best deserves the credit? Of course, usually the master and student share the awards, but what if they are at odds and deadly enemies? It is a pretty good book, if a little John O’Hara-ish out of Ayn Rand. Like life, and science, so the fruits of literary labour are never justly nor evenly distributed.