Not Heraclitus

25 Aug

It is well documented that I grew up in Katingal.  (Trevor’s bio says that he grew up in Katingal Heights.  But then, his bio reads like a cross between the Bourne Identity and Catcher in the Rye.  I regret having written it for him, but I needed the cash.  I was low on office supplies.)

I returned recently.  My father gave me a small coin to go up the road and buy a cake to have with tea.  I tossed the coin into the air and it blew away, as I knew it would.  I think they were withdrawn from circulation last century, at a time when they purchased a drop of water.  I wandered into the shopping centre, and wondered at the fact that it had a ceiling, and was therefore all indoors.  Things had indeed changed in Katingal.  If only I knew what I was about to see.

Inside, there were many Asian people.  That’s fine, it means we are closer to living in Bladerunner, and I look forward to tumbling killer androids.  But I digress.  The things the people had.

There was a sushi train.  A freaking sushi train.  And, at a fish shop (I nearly said fishmonger’s, that would have given away that I am centuries old, wouldn’t it), live crabs and lobsters in buckets, with their claws helpfully lassooed (no doubt by tiny cowboys.  Fishboys.  Fishpersons.  Sorry.)

What is going on?  You have to appreciate, that growing up in Katingal, I thought that spaghetti came from a can, and could only be eaten on toast.  For many years I thought “battered” was the natural state of fish, that they came with a tasty skin.  Now they have live crustacea.

They also had a homeless man.  He looked very cute and cuddly and fat and smelly wrapped up in old blankets, with old fashioned motor cycle goggles tight on his face.  A plastic cup of beer in one hand, a half eaten meat pie in the other.  I looked closely to see if he was someone I went to school with, but he began to wave the pie warily at me, and I was worried the gravy may have been hot.

I do not recall growing up amongst homeless people.  However, when I remarked upon this on another occasion, Rat (his real name) said, oh yes, don’t you remember the fellow who slept under a sheet of corrugated iron and never spoke, then one day he wasn’t around anymore, and then, it was in the Katingal Kourier, someone smelled something, and moved the corrugated iron …?

No, I remember no such thing.  I remember swimming and homework and watching TV and big red ants, and staring at girls and looking away quickly so they wouldn’t catch me at it.  Especially Mandy-mae.

O Katingal!  Sushi trains and homeless people.  O Trevor!  What have you wrought?


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