Painting and story by Sandshoe.

There is an unearthly silence in the park as I look across to the kiosk, although the through traffic is visible in the proximity created by the the sweep of the drive past two and one-storey homes planned as residential accommodation for The Games. Ambling lovers, photographers and students appear deaf anyway to the sudden protest of cars braking to avoid the ducks crossing, lost in a world far removed from the built-up environ of this suburb … yes, perhaps they are locals and even longing as I did for the especial comfort of the quiet of a back street avenue and a home with a sweep of untidy rooms for its residents and occasional visitors.

Where I stayed there was a white shag pile carpet in the front living room that looked out on the promenade and path across the park.

This is the suburb of some dreams and some earthly disasters where I spent a summer like water, the houses in an arc of a bright sun splattering window glare and the humdrum; it was hot and drought. Water restrictions were unheard of and water splashed in a reticulated circuit out of green cloth shade enclaves of hanging plants and jangling banboo. Sturt Desert Pea was coaxed to take root in front gardens bordering lawn that was cherished to grow table napkin fashion amidst cement driveways and pebble paths. Some homes sprouted shrubbery. It graced their no-fence look fencing and plonked itself in the middle of nooks set in a red brick wall. A brush gate for a moment swung open on its hinge. I saw a small dog run through it.

In the dark of night cars came and parked. People got out of them and talked. No-one lingered. Cars went and more cars came.

I really am contributing by finishing my writing of this piece, this late Friday afternoon, to the celebration of the 2^nd birthday of the Pig’s Arms. Beginning to write, I felt an inspiration of passion to tell readers something of an experience of suburbia I had one year where I was holed up some days on end working on the layout and preparation for publishing of a community anthology. The days were stinking hot and dry. I was on a deadline. My entertainment to stretch my legs was to walk the distance around a pond over the road, past cars parked no further distance from the front door of the home address than the width of a normal curved no-exit turn around at the end of suburban street. The wisdom of the planners was to create a parking bay allowing cars to come and go as cars do at a tourist venue.

Sometimes I heard words spoken by passengers alighting from their vehicles or as they tarried beside their opened car boots to take out picnic blankets and baskets, sketching tablets and chairs, unfolding children’s push chairs. I tuned out. No, sometimes I reflected on the tone of the voices. I will never understand why people buy their homes in the sort of enclave created by noise indifferent suburban planners.

Readers, just as perhaps you suppose by reading on you will find the answer why (if you have not guessed) there was an unearthly silence in the park, described in my opening of this essay and that regardless followed by evidence of noise a-plenty, likely you suppose I will tie everything up pretty well nicely before I get to the end, weave the threads of the story, snip them somewhere, so there is no fray.

Too tidy. This is what I want to say, really.

Happy birthday, Pig’s Arms. May we enjoy the fortune for many birthdays to come of the venue and its patrons, which is its companionship and the sharing of our written word, our experience, our imagination and ourselves. Well done, Mike Jones. Thank you for The Arms.