![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Some Brisbane Thoughts
Oct. 27th, 2002 07:30 pmWhy a small notebook and a pen shouldn't be allowed to rest in my hands . . .
I had a slatternly Spring Hill childhood. I grew up in a place where climbing the tall, twisting, spiral staircases on the sides of buildings was as exciting as navigating the leafy 'jungle' of a friend's backyard. Where we rode tricycles down a sloping bitumen carpark and then dropped our Cyclops over the leaning back fence. Where we clamboured over an ancient, retired steam-train in the local park, ignorant of the threat of asbestos or no-win, no-fee legal challenges. Where we could walk to the ekka in two straight lines, but we always rode home, in the dusk, on someone elses shoulders. Where the school, in the middle of the city, was but a building and to run to 100 meters you had to start before the oval began.
I had a slatternly Spring Hill childhood. I grew up in a place where climbing the tall, twisting, spiral staircases on the sides of buildings was as exciting as navigating the leafy 'jungle' of a friend's backyard. Where we rode tricycles down a sloping bitumen carpark and then dropped our Cyclops over the leaning back fence. Where we clamboured over an ancient, retired steam-train in the local park, ignorant of the threat of asbestos or no-win, no-fee legal challenges. Where we could walk to the ekka in two straight lines, but we always rode home, in the dusk, on someone elses shoulders. Where the school, in the middle of the city, was but a building and to run to 100 meters you had to start before the oval began.
