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Painting with My Father

An elderly gent ambled towards me on the walking track. He spoke into his mobile phone, “G’day cobber.” I hadn’t heard that typically Aussie phrase for years. It brought the face of my dad to mind, and a recollection of the time we painted the house together. The image of Dad with paint cans and brushes made me smile. I remember the old house in Murrumbeena clearly: double-fronted California bungalow with a haphazard garden. Mum loved plants but she just popped them in wherever there was a space. The house was always painted grey with white trim and Dad never…

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