The other day I went to Kingsford. In my defence I didn't know I was going to Kingsford until quite late in the day when it was a little difficult to back out. Since my puffin still hadn't recovered from its exertions at Salt Pan Creek the previous day I left him behind to deal with the increasingly furious neighbours complaining about our arguments. I would experience Kingsford by myself.
Ah Kingsford; the very name itself conjures up images of a person desperately googling Kingsford to find anything to say about it. Named after one our nation's foremost aviators Kingsford's history is rich beyond compare, it was built in the 1920s and its still there now. It may have been inspired by an aviator but it took nearly a century before it was decided the place needed any sort of transport link other than the occasional road. Now, however, Sydney's latest stretch of light rail sort of peters out in the general vicinity of the suburb thus bringing public transportation well into the 1890s.
At this point you may be wondering why I went to Kingsford. You may be wondering that although I suspect you're more likely to be wondering "why am I still reading this crap?" or "why hasn't this clown been committed yet?". The answer (to the first question, not the other two) is I have friends who live in Kingsford. On Sunday last they planned a small get together and at the last moment reluctantly decided they should invite me along as well. I suspect they were expecting me to refuse but when I accepted they were too well mannered to suddenly change their minds.
My friend Tony has apparently spent the last three months tearing concrete and asbestos out of the ground with his teeth. As a result he looks lean and healthy (and his teeth look like he's embraced cannibalism). The entire concrete tearing episode has left them with a lawn of lush grass which they can't walk on yet. Apparently its very young and needs to be coddled. Giving them the benefit of my puffin rearing skills I pointed out that surgically applied cruelty produces far better results. They smiled politely and scratched my name off the list of people they would entrust their daughter to (I'm not offended by that but I'm a little pissed off that my puffin is still on the list).
In addition to Tony and his wife Natali two other friends made their appearance, recoiled slightly at the sight of me, and cautiously said hello. Jason and Idette are modern day gypsies moving from home to home at such a rate that I have completely given up trying to figure out where they're living at any given moment. Rounding out this rogues gallery were two daughters (one for each married couple) and a cat which made a brief entrance and then vanished.
There was wine, there was conversation and some excellent cheese so that we could fill in the time before dinner by eating. From time to time an expectant eye was cast skyward. We were waiting for nightfall. When it became dark the coloured lights in their pool would come on for our entertainment. Coloured lights in a pool are an awesome idea if only because there's nothing like an epileptic fit to take your mind off drowning. Eventually the Sun succumbed to our collective wishes and fled the sky pursued by our impatient cursing. I sat back with a glass of wine in hand and watched the pool change colours entertained by the joyful sound of ten year olds pushing each other into the water.
With food and wine consumed, pool lights enjoyed and the realisation slowly growing that neither child was actually going to drown the other there was nothing left but to say polite goodbyes and leave. I'm pretty sure I behaved myself and the psychological damage of my visit was nothing that a severe opioid addiction and a lifetime in therapy couldn't cure. I'm hoping to be invited back again next year. If he's good I might bring my puffin.
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