This journey to the past is never ending but at least I have saved you from another scanned photograph.
It would have been my father sitting behind his prized possession, the TV TRAY. In caps because that's the way he thought of it. Coming home from the races on a winter's night, footy on the telly, fire on and his tea on a tray, he was in luxuryland.
So, we had a fight. I can't think what we would be fighting about at 8 a.m. when I was on the way out the door to the bus stop. I mean we were both so volatile we tended to keep a lid on things, going off to snarl in corners. My sister was a different kind of fish. She sulked, she could have sulked for Australia in the Olympics so with her, Dad sulked. They would go on for weeks until Mum did her block. But I'd explode and so would he.
The bus stop was right outside the house so I calculated the distance and flew out the door, having the last word as I went.
It must have been a good last word as he picked up his precious tray and threw it through the front door at me. He missed.
I did the only thing possible. I turned around and jumped on his tray. I flattened it to the grass.
And ran for the bus wondering how old one had to be for joining the French Foreign Legion.
He took the battered and broken creature inside and asked Mum if she thought I'd come home that night.
He rang about 3 and said Mum wanted to know if I'd be home for tea.
He was eating his tea from a brand new tray.
"Nice tray," I said. "Got it on Special." he said.