When there wasn’t mush else to do on lazy Camperdown weekend afternoons we would go and climb something – a tree, the mountain or some roofs in the main street where I lived. We’d climb up an ancient drainpipe near Mr’s Glessons music shop, the paint peeling away in slivers on our hands revealing corroding metal underneath- how much longer did it have we wondered? We clambered over corrugated metal roofs, trying to be quiet but being given away by the cracking metal beneath our feet. We let our lightweight bodies follow the course of the domed roofing nails that had been punched through to the cross members, there was less chance of us having the flimsy metal buckle beneath us then. There was no fear of heights then, just the excitement of being ‘up’, and the potential of being ‘caught’. Above the St.Vincents thrift store, we sidled up to the facade like commandos and popped our heads over for a recce of the main avenue. They were great days, easy days, no cares no responsibilities, everything provided, you just had to ‘be’

Out the back there was another favorite climbing escapade, the willow tree, its tired droopy branches were like wild long hair stretching down to the ground meeting up with a tangle of unkempt grass and a dilapidated shed that reminded me of a gun emplacement from world war two. Sometimes I’d pretend I had a rifle and was picking the enemy off in the distance. We nailed a few planks of wood up there and would watch the world go by with some fizzy orange fanta and a chocolate bar. It’s funny the way the bubbles work, especially when for some reason you laughed and it came out through your nose, worse than when you do underwater somersaults in a pool. I think we also used to make a sound like mad dolphins as we tried those tumbles. I held my nose ’cause I couldn’t stand those bubbles…..