Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Suburbia- Daily Object Writing – Oct 24

Sometimes when I’m coming in to land at Tullamarine, just before the spoilers arch from under the wings with that yawning sound, before the wheels clunk into place, we make a left turn over suburbia. After parched fields of faded yellow we hang on top of a series of roofs, the hat for each mini-mansion, most in resplendent dull orange or brown. From the air they all look so uniform and everyone is probably acting out their uniform roles in their uniform lives. If it’s a Saturday, they’ll be out the back pulling the starter yoke on the two stroke, letting it go letting it chug, filling the air with that mixture of petrol and oil, cutting unruly lawns down to size, leaving behind the wet mushy clippings that take me straight back to childhood.

In back yards harried mothers dip hands into plastic clothes baskets and withdraw damp nappies in muted flannel that hang like traitors from the line. They come alive as the sun dries there misery. Later in the afternoon and into the evening it’s a family barbcue, where the relos [relatives] come from their nestling of suburbia to indulge in yours and where smoky sausages are squeezed between pliant slices of white bread and lumpy steaks turn until they are crispy brown on the outside. Dowsed with tomato sauce it doesn’t matter how bad they’re cooked – they taste beaut mate. I can still taste the underlying charred meat though, in my frazzled sausage, there’s no fooling me.