My first vivid memory of my father was shortly after I was born. I was strapped into my bassinet on the veranda with an unobstructed view of the front lawn. Dad was lying under the tractor doing some repairs. I knew it was him because, even at that age, I recognised his filthy, black gum boots. I think they were the only footwear he owned. Mum always wanted him to wear fancy shoes but he refused, saying they made him look like a “raving poof”. Read the rest of this entry »