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”.

I remember my first day at school. It was less than one month after I’d turned five. Dad drove me down town in the old ute and took me in to meet my teacher, Mrs Sidebottom. She almost shit herself when she saw dad’s gum boots leaving mud all over the carpet in the class room. Dad apologised but I knew he wasn’t sorry. By this stage he had branched out and bought a pair of thongs as well, but on that day he chose his trusty gum boots and boy, were they all caked in shit!

We buried Dad last week. He had requested a funeral with an open coffin so friends and relatives could say goodbye face to face. He was naked except for those old gum boots. They had strips of rubber hanging off them and chunks of mud had fallen off and stained the white satin inside the box. If it wasn’t such a sad day I would’ve laughed until my face caved in. I could’ve sworn the priest kept looking lovingly at Dad lying lifeless in the box.