To attract mates, the white cattle egrets are presently turning orange and affecting new spiky haircuts. The brighter the breeding flush,
the more sexually appealing the
bird. They remain orange and hyped-up until mid-summer.

When their libido wanes in the heat they fade back to white. I sometimes wonder if the cows, their stolid cohorts, notice these dramatic changes. Ah, spring, when blossoming jacarandas signal to southerners that the weather is now sunny enough, the ocean warm enough, the whale migration fascinating enough, to hit the Pacific Highway.

The Friday afternoon of a long weekend and Barry and Veronica are standing on the doorstep, without notice. “We’re spontaneous people,” they enthuse. “We just thought we’d drop in to see you.” Why? They are, at best, friends of friends. I’ve never been to their house. Could it be they want a free holiday? Barry is an architect and frustrated guitarist. Veronica is a literary academic, a firm coloniser of French critical theory. Her short-story classes not only deny the existence of Hemingway and Carver, but also Chekhov. Despite this, and my strange reluctance to relish the phrase “death of the author” forever lurking in her vicinity, I allow her over the threshold. Before you can say Fourcault they’ve settled in. Barry has stripped to Speedos for indoor wear, just as Veronica favors a bikini for the lounge room. Puffy white winter flesh is to be expected, but suddenly I’m not sure where to look.

How to put this delicately? Let’s just say my children now have a word for exposed pubic hairs. They call them Veronicas. On this day Veronica is exhibiting a rampant regrowth-rainforest of Veronicas, on all three sides of the bikini triangle. As for Barry, his budgie-smugglers manage to be both saggy and tight, and edging towards transparency. And he can’t leave the
continued on page 40 (after A & I map)
continued from page 37
budgie alone. A little encouraging adjustment here, a nonchalant rearrangement there.

IS Barry on spring display too? He’s wearing several silver neck chains. Alas, the neck and the budgie enclosure are not the only parts he’s showing off. He also has a silver ring through his (extremely big) left nipple. Now one of the last things on earth I want to enter my consciousness, even for a micro-second, is a large, pierced, 50-year-old male nipple. Nevertheless, there it is, on flagrant display in my lounge room. Already the .nipple is taking up way too much physical and emotional space. It’s killing conversation. Nothing –

not the budgie exhibition, not the Veronica jungle -- can compete for attention with the nipple. In the background my children are stifling giggles

Dusk falls, the temperature drops. Veronica, thank God, dons clothing. But all Barry puts on is a skimpy black string singlet, like gigolos wore in 1962. I guess why. Its loops are big enough for his nipple-ring to peep through. And it’s still short enough for budgerigar maintenance. And so to dinner. “The good old barbecue cliché!” snorts Barry. He grimaces. “What’s this we’re drinking? We meant to bring some decent wine from the Hunter. But once we got on the highway we thought it best to keep driving.” I do grim things with steak. Barry and his nipple-ring hover nearby. “I’ve never got around to reading any of your books,” he says. “Have I missed anything?” I grunt. Barry cocks an ear, frowns and wonders, “Have you got any music other than this?” Finally the meal is served on the veranda. “Sit where you like,” I tell people. “I’ll eat mine inside,” Barry announces. “There’s a Beach Boys retrospective on TV.” Bare feet up on the coffee-table, he adjusts his Speedos and tucks in.

So it goes through the weekend. On Sunday night Monica picks up the host’s burgeoning discontent and attempts to mollify matters. “We’re taking you all out to breakfast tomorrow!” she offers. “A fabulous breakfast on us!” We’re up at six as usual, anticipating a smart cafe breakfast. Seven o’clock passes, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Barry and Veronica sleep on. The children, bored and hungry, have long since eaten breakfast and are anticipating lunch. At 12.30 the visitors rise languidly, shower, drink tea, read the paper and lounge about, displaying well-rested Veronicas and budgie. Barry does callisthenics with some little blue dumbells. His star-jumps make his nipple-ring jiggle. By the time they’re ready, and we’ve driven into town (this is a public holiday in the country), it’s 3 p.m. and any restaurants have stopped serving lunch, much less breakfast. We end up at the Big Prawn on the highway, eating fish and chips as trucks thunder past.

“What’s on the agenda tomorrow?” Barry wonders. “I have to work,” I say. “That’s OK, we won’t bother you,” Barry says. “We’ve got family coming to stay,” I lie. “I’m afraid you’ll have to check into a motel.” They look most put out. Barry seems about to argue the decision. Then my small daughter, giggling, says, “Look at me.” She pulls up her shirt, holds two calamari rings up to her skinny chest and jiggles them about. The guests go quietly.