Queuing at the CDU cafeteria bain marie. Takeaway lasagne and apple juice for lunch.
“Hello, Mr Parish,” says the woman at the counter, plump, middle-aged with a pleasant face. I look puzzled.
“I really know your face from somewhere,” she explains. “Were you an Anglicare counsellor or something?”
I wasn’t going to remind her about politics over a decade ago. Back then I felt like I was always in the spotlight whenever I walked out the front door. As a congenital introvert, I hated it.
“Nah. I’ve just been around a long time, that’s all. They’d never let me loose as a counsellor,” I say. “I can’t even run my own life let alone anyone else’s.”
“Neither can Beryl,” one of the other middle-aged serving matrons chimes in. “But that doesn’t stop her from giving us mob free advice all the time.”
They’re a friendly, happy bunch down at the cafeteria. Last week they dressed up as witches for Friday the 13th. Very convincing some of them were too. Beryl especially. The Good Witch of the North.
I’m just back from a long liquid lunch. Prawns and Mussells, plus a very passable bottle of red or two. Quite civillised. Happily, we were the only table in the place, so we went unrecognised.