Yesterday evening was one of those nights that remind Jen and I why we still live in Darwin despite its many drawbacks. The warm wet breeze blowing as the sun set over the harbour, silhouetting a huge gas tanker leaving for Japan, sitting under the palm trees at the Ski Club listening to Kyla Brox and her band play classic blues.
Even the big ugly male bull terrier at the table next to us was almost loveable, snuggling around the feet of the women at our table. Despite its placid nature, the group at the next table had apparently only managed to get to the Ski Club by telling the taxi phone operator that it was a guide dog! One of the women explained that, even though the bullie was now owned by an ageing bikey bloke with her group (the Ski Club’s management is said to be closely associated with the Hell’s Angels), it had been raised by a woman and so associated them with security.
Jen is wont to boast of her prowess gained from Melbourne’s school of hard knocks, and reckons she knows a few things about avoiding getting the crap beaten out of herself or her partner. I can only assume she’s getting a bit rusty from lack of practise. Telling a middle aged Hell’s Angel that his bull terrier is “a poofta” and has “homosexual tendencies” was never a good move where I grew up. Deathly silence was followed by coughs and splutters and “If you were a bloke I would have decked you by now”. I kept gazing studiedly out to sea, while the bikey struck a few more ineffectual aggressive poses and then took his dog over to the Museum lawns for a poo.