Conversations between neighbours recall times past when Australia was at war.
He was my neighbour. A small weathered man with gnarled hands and fingers. He wore his bushman's hat at a rakish angle and walked his small dog Rambo energetically. We often spoke on the corner of his garden just across the road from our place. He was a good gardener. Much better than me. His flowerbeds proved that, producing colour where mine were bone dry and dusty.
Wal was my main source of neighbourhood gossip. He knew everyone on the street.He knew who was down with the 'flu, what the last house sold for, he even knew where most of the breakins had happened.
Our street was suppose to be where the well-to-do lived. In fact it was full of retirees on fixed incomes. Falling interest rates and lack lustre markets meant hard times for most of us. This didn;t stop the local burglars who saw rich pickings and easy access.
Its a beautiful and moving story Val, you should write about when you and your fellow countrymen launched the First Anzaz Day celebratons in Canada's Arctic about forty years ago, standing up to you arses in snow and trying to keep the beer from freezing.