REFLECTIONS
A memoir on the value of life
by Kim
Part I

Life is cruel. Life is unpredictable. So never take living for granted. A healthy old age is not a birthright. It is not guaranteed. Believe me, I know.
Come with me now, if you will. Cast you mind back, if you are able, to 1978. It was the era of punk rock. Live music was everywhere, in every pub. Overseas punk bands visited, and they were so cheap to see. I used to nobble together my own outfits – that was what punk was all about. In Britain it was music for a largely disenfranchised youth. They had the right to speak but no-one seemed to listen to them. “Sex Pistols” challenged authority. They threw the cat amongst the pigeons. And their flame, though short-lived, will burn for years. They brushed away the old – disco, arena bands and 17-minute songs – and they, together with American bands like “The Ramones”, introduced three chord songs that were short, fast and loud. They heralded a time when anyone could pick up a guitar, learn a few chords, and form a band.
Then the lyrics evolved. Bands like “Clash” finally produced lyrics with depth. They were either social or political and spoke to us. It was a great time to be a twenty-something.
Then, around 1980, many of our friends married. They all had children within the year. “We want to be young parents”, was the mantra. Steve and I, had a different idea. We married young. I was 19 and he was 22. In a month or so our ages would change but that is of no importance. We were still having fun seeing bands. In between working, that is.
We were young, full of life and working hard. We secured a home loan and worked hard to pay it off. Steve worked two jobs. He had his full-time position as a public servant. He would work overtime whenever it was available. Then there was his extra job as bar staff and waiting on tables in a local club.
As for me, I worked as a computer operator for the local council. Lucky for me, one of the chaps on the other shift would call in “sick” quite often. He always fell ill when assigned to an afternoon shift. This was especially the case when he had acquired a new electronic “toy”. I did not complain as I readily put my hand up to fill-in for his shift. This was in the days when unions in Australia were strong and penalty rates were high.
Steve and I earned enough money between us in two and a half years to fully pay down the mortgage on our home, a modest beachside two bedroom flat in which we still live. We decided it was time to travel. After a short two-month jaunt to the western United States, we planned to head for Britain and beyond.
With six months of long-service leave – earnt after ten consecutive years of service in his position – we decided to head off overseas. Steve had four weeks of leave also accumulated and he was permitted to take the long-service leave at half-pay. That added up to fourteen months of paid leave, with no loss of his position. To say we were excited is an understatement. On March 24, 1986 we flew off to London via Singapore or Bangkok.
Australia was suffering from sweltering heat so, Steve, his brother Tim and I all took off in shorts, singlets and thongs (of the footwear variety – known as “flip-flops “in the UK). Tim was going to head off on his own but, at least, he and I had the forethought to pack warmer clothing in our carry-on luggage. The memory of Steve standing on, what was then, an above ground platform at Heathrow with only a sloppy joe (as they were called in Australia – think sweatshirt), shorts and thongs, is hilarious as a rugged-up little girl, complete with coat, scarf and wooly cap, tugged at her mother’s sleeve and pointed feverously and quizzically toward this strangely dressed man.
And we caught the British Rail train, as it was then, and then the tube to Waterloo to find the bed and breakfast we had booked from back home in Australia. Our adventure was about to begin.
END PART I