St Georges Terrace

My parents didn't really put a value on education. I don't think Mum had an opinion either way. But after A-Levels my Dad flatly refused to offer a parental contribution to a possible grant towards a place at Aberystwyth University where I was going to study Geography. He said get out into the real world son. The world of academia is shite. In those days without parental backing, especially if they had good income, you were scuppered. I then took various jobs saving up so that I could fund myself. I worked double shifts in a glass factory and then double shifts for Securicor. Guarding factories at night and running cash-in-transit by day. It soon became clear that after 3 years I could apply for a mature grant anyway. So I had this money saved. All summer holidays I had been working archaeological sites. That started when I was 17. Just down the road a huge roman settlement was uncovered on a new building development. All work halted while a rescue dig could be undertaken. Nobody new what they were doing and at age 17 I became supervisor. Joke. Long story.
So I had this money saved. I had this travel urge. Sagitarian. I bought a BOAC ticket to Karachi. Don't ask me why. No recollection about visas or anything. Age 20. Landed in Karachi. Alone, stupid clueless. You would think that those days would be etched sharply on my memory but the heat was so intense and the boarding houses so tawdry that my memory plays tricks. I remember cock-roaches and dreadful cesspits but not a lot else. I just sort of walked in a fairy land of other peoples worlds.
My next ticket was for Perth in Western Australia but we had to stop off in Singapore and Kuala Lumpar.
Perth Airport in 1972 was just a couple of sheds and a small office block. I had a backpack and a sleeping bag. There was no way to hitch-hike away from the airport so I had to get a taxi. The Yugoslavian taxi driver said "Where to?" It was the middle of the night. I said "Perth". He said "Yeah...where in Perth?" But  he sussed me out in no time, before the days of asylum seekers, before the days of beach-bums .....he said he had a spare room which he could rent me.
I spent a whole month living with him, his wife and young daughter. They grilled me about the Beatles, Rolling Stones mini-skirts and Rod Stewart. I desperately wanted a job in Perth to boost my funds. I asked place after place and building site after building site about work.. No Joy. My Yugoslavian landlord gently told me that the reason why I couldn't get a job. Was because I was English.
Lazy bastards and always whinging!!! The foreman on the site for a new bank on St Georges Terrace was a Scottish chap. After pleading with him he said "Work a day for no pay. No promises!"
I can still hear that sentence today!!! I was there a month.
It's strange now to read a Tim Winton Novel mentioning St Georges Terrace.
Perth is a wierd ethereal distant sparklingly clear intensely focussed sharp on the senses kind of a town.....out there on the East Indian ocean... miles from anywhere. Tim Winton Country.