Please bear with me for just a moment as I get all
melancholy. I promise it won’t happen again (until next time of course).
****
This is it.
It’s over.
It’s the final night in the basement of St. Anthony’s “Milk
Carton”.
Not sure how it all rolled around so quickly but it’s over.
Done.
Naked walls bounce Paul Kelly’s Songs from the Sixteenth
Floor around the Spartan living space which, until yesterday, was the home of donated
furniture.
Perched in a top hat on the floral chesterfield we watched
Will and Kate get hitched, the All Blacks beat the French, Socceroos escorted
calmly from the World Cup, a Harry Potter marathon, and now, with the bed sold,
it briefly became my nightly refuge.
The kitchen – now reeking of bleach – saw the birth of
bread, baked treats, moose vindaloo, moose sushi and a pizza-fuelled tantrum that
would have made Ramsey blush.
It’s been fun.
Now, as I sit in my straw cowboy hat listening to Paul Kelly
now telling the tale of Don Bradman, it seems so vacuous, except for the
memories.
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