It was Saturday morning and mum was busy with the washing for it was one of those periods in which she was well enough to work at the textile factory on weekdays and the household chores were relegated to the weekend. Horrie was off getting spare parts for the car and undoubtedly detouring to the local SP down the pub, Rosely and Howie had just set off to the footy, and I was left to skulk about in the backyard with nothing to do and doing that. When the doorbell rang, it might have come as a welcome relief but I found I was completely exhausted by the thought that I might have to answer it.
“Go see who it is, will you dear?” mum asked predicably.
    There was a lot of moaning and groaning and only a titanic effort got me through the house and to the door. There stood a man I had never seen before in a suit that fitted him so badly he had probably borrowed it. He had a sort of hopeless, helpless look about him, like the funny little man who played opposite the immortal Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch. In short, there was no possible way of recognising in advance that this was one of the seminal moments in my life.
“Hello, sonny. Is your dad home?”
“Nope. Down the pub.”
    The man smiled. I could not have known that the man smiled because he already knew that the sorts of dad’s he wished to avoid were never at home at this time of day.