December 30, 2012
You’ll be pleased to know that the kilo of Christmas prawns has been eaten. The last forty or so of them were one day past their stamped bed-time date and just starting to get this whiff of being off. To my surprise prawns were out at this year’s Christmas. How was I to know? Things and fashions move so fast now-a-days. It’s all salads now with spinach leaves and roasted almonds, with lots of aromatic herbal balsamatic ‘infusion.’ Infusion has made inroads lately; we have to have things that are infused. Has anyone noticed that too? A few years ago, it was ‘logistics’ closely followed by ‘solutions.’ No one had problems, solutions only were allowed. The local butcher sold meat solutions, not just plain meat. Still, waste not; want not, I went solemnly and on my own through the entire kilo of prawns. Glad it is all over for another year.
We now hurl ourselves towards the New Year and grandsons were eyeing the sparklers yesterday at Big W. Thank goodness we have a skate park just across the road. They love it and Thomas especially. He wore a hole in his right shoe where he propels himself forward on the skate-board down the steep concrete slope and then up again at the opposite side. While suspended in mid-air he makes a 180 degree turn around and goes down yet again.
I suggested I would take some photos but howls of protest ensued. They don’t want an old fogey in front of their skating and scooting friends. They call everybody ‘guys’ now, don’t they? Even girls are now guys. It is nice to be so young and lively. I suppose, training for making backward turns does no harm, an imitation and good practice of life to come. Come on you guys, can you do the back-flip? Sure can. Look at me, yippee. I suppose if girls can join the group name as ‘guys’, why not then also include the boys as ‘gals’. It would be fair. Perhaps that era is yet to come. Come on you gals let’s do a back flip with a somersault. Up, back, and down again.
Call me a curmudgeon if you like, but I still yearn for the years when we had ‘blokes and sheilas.’ At the back of Parramatta girls home, as the teen-age boys were wont to brag; you could pick up a sheila for a good root for a malted milkshake, against a six foot paling fence. It was all so much more wholesome and honest. Sex was a quickie after trying out a bit of a fondle while watching Ben Hur at the local cinema, breaths all vinegar chips and chewing gum.
Perhaps it is all a yearning whereby facts and fantasy are now playing havoc. It was never THAT good. I do remember though, as if yesterday, getting my hand to rest, momentarily, on Mavis’ left thigh while she was all agog over Victor Mature in the Cinemascopic triumph of ’The Robe’.
Well, on left thigh is a bit exaggerated. It was really the edge of her knee, my hand precariously hovering to the point of almost dropping off. It was difficult enough to get a date, even more difficult to become intimate enough for an evening to the Burwood cinema with a real sheila. It was only after I mentioned The Robe, that Mavis felt safe to accompany a migrant reffo boy. This migrant boy having blond hair and from Holland was more than a mitigating circumstance in able to pull off a date. At least, not a dago. She wouldn’t have been seen dead with a swarthy knife puller. The Robe in full Cinemascope had enough religious overtones for Mavis to overcome any doubts of inappropriate behavior. ‘It would be as safe as one could possibly get,’ she must have sighed in her final acceptance.
The advent of Cinemascope was very cutting-edge technology and it held great promise. The Robe was advertised on posters with the audience just about inside the action or at the very minimum surrounded by a giant screen. My intentions were less religiously oriented than Mavis’, much more real world. I wanted to be able to tell my friends of finally having touched the holy grail of all teenage boys ambitions, a real thigh, even if fully clothed. A couple of inches away from its so much sought after destination would be acceptable too. Even with the hand in between two legs could, with some solitary conjuring up later on, be at least thought of as being on the right track.
The Hammond organ rose majestically from the bowels of the cinema. A white suited Liberace doppelganger belted out a very sweet ‘Yellow rose of Texas.’ The suspense was palpable with the promise of Cinemascope still hidden behind giant curtains. Next, came the obligatory ‘God save the Queen’. Mavis and I with most of the patrons stood up as was the mode at the time. A few remained seated. They were the rebellious rock and roll anti Queen and Country bodgies and widgies.
After those preliminaries, the organ with the white suit vanished into the bowels again and lights were switched off. Apart from the pervasive redolent vinegar chips rustling about, you could hear a pin drop. The curtains slid open and exposed acres of screen with giant sound boxes on each side. The Robe announced itself with a thunderous roll call of drums and trumpets. Let the action begin!
I am afraid that my intentions were less pure than Mavis’ who wanted to gain insight into the story of The Robe. She remained transfixed to the screen and even the appearance of Victor Mature’ jutting profile did not add much mellowing of her ram-rod body language towards my side of the seat. If anything, she moved slightly away from me and I sensed rigidity. I suppose, the theme of the movie where Roman soldiers and Greek slaves are in mortal conflict fighting over God’s Robe wasn’t really suitable for any erotic conquests of a thigh. My hand did manage for a split second to hover on the previously mentioned knee when I realized and accepted the hopelessness of it all.
I decided to wait for a more suitable movie and a girl with more welcoming and pliable thighs. Some years later I finally achieved my hand on a welcoming thigh. The movie, I remember it well, was ‘Tammy.’