Desert Island Discs

Something a bit lighter for now – some memories inspired by a ‘Desert Island Discs’ writing prompt. Yes, I was a Countdown tragic. Guilty as charged.

1975, Mrs Lumsdaine in No. 11 has a record player, and my neighbour Cathy and I sit on her sofa listening to Billy Don’t be a Hero on Explosive Hits ’74, a hand-me-down from my cousin and my first-ever record. Snuffling into our hankies at the tragedy of it. We’re nine.

1980. Now I’m 14, lying on my tummy on our floral lounge room carpet with my friend Lynn, Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell on the turntable, the album jacket open before us, memorising the words to Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Even the ballgame commentary (… it’s gonna be close, holy cow, I think he’s gonna make it!)

That first, unmistakable, thumping chord of Elton’s Benny and the Jets at my 16th birthday party, 1981.

Playing the Straits’ Romeo and Juliet over and over, 1984, about to dump my high school boyfriend for my uni boyfriend. You can fall for chains of silver, you can fall for chains of gold…

The next day, dancing cheek to cheek to Prince’s Purple Rain with that uni boyfriend in his father’s rental in Campsie.

Now it’s 2002. Hallelujah. I know. But at a barbecue, the strains of KD Laing (the only allowable cover of it, IMO) drifting from the house. I’m on the verandah and Ken’s turning sausages on the grill plate across the yard. As we raise our glasses in a silent toast, his nine-year-old daughter Billie comes running around the corner, ‘Hey, that’s the song from Shrek!’

Paul Kelly, Australia’s poet laureate. How to Make Gravy, To her Door.

Jimmy Barnes when he’s being quiet: Khe Sanh and Flame Trees. Hymns of our time. And I’m happy just to sit here at a table with old friends, and see which one of us can tell the biggest lies.

Oh, I could go on…