I hopped on the 423 at Railway Square on Friday night but the driver wouldn't take my money. Apparently while I've been away the buses have become cash-free. I was cross and hungry and not about to get off the bus I'd waited ages for so I muttered "Whatever" and headed up the back, dropping my coins into my bag. The driver didn't say anything, he didn't care. After stretching my armpits swinging around on the hand-holds all along King St I finally got a seat.

Near me were two young men, drunk as -- they couldn't really talk but they could still walk. They were twins, identical, with the same profile: a slightly bumped nose and soft lips. Nice looking, young. They were communicating almost silently, only muttering things to each other occasionally and laughing and gesturing in that funny pissed unco' way. They wore matching blue-green beanies and milk-chocolate coloured tee-shirts, but one had jeans and thongs while his brother had grey trackies and sneakers. The one in jeans sat next to me and his head lolled onto my shoulder. He jerked up and laughed, blue-grey eyes open wide, and I smiled at him.

Then, at Enmore Park, the inspector got on. "Tickets please everyone." Oh shit & buggery I had no ticket. But the inspector ignored me and focused on the drunk brothers. They swayed, they staggered, they groped around in their pockets, they mumbled to each other, and eventually the inspector took them off the bus. But in seconds they'd leapt back on, grinning, waving their found tickets triumphantly. I felt like cheering. They sat far enough away that I could take their photo, and they got off at the corner of Victoria and Marrickville Roads near the cheesecake shop.

Small acts of kindness

Muriel lived next door with her son, Peter, and his various grown children and their spouses who came and went. English wasn’t Muriel’s first language, although she’d never left Australia; she was an Aboriginal woman. At least once a week she’d come home late, a little bit drunk, her keys lost, and cry outside Jenny’s front door “Jenny, Jenny, you there love! Jenny?”

Jenny was always kind to Muriel, bringing her cups of tea while she waited for Peter to either get home or wake up from his heavy drunken sleep. His bedroom was the front one, so only a pane of glass separated him from Muriel’s cries of “Petey, Petey, open the door, it’s Nan, it’s ya mum, you gotta gimme a new key, Petey!” Muriel never swore, and she didn’t seem to feel sorry for herself although she was poor and disabled. Another one of her sons had bashed her a few years ago and left her with a permanently injured back, so now she needed a walking frame to get about. She lived on the pension and was regularly kicked out of pubs; taxis often wouldn’t stop for her. She thought this was because they were all driven by Chinks, who weren’t to be trusted, but then her doctor up at the bulk billing place on Marrickville Road was a lovely Chink, a nice young fella.

Jenny liked listening to Muriel’s stories, liked to enjoy Muriel’s sunny outlook, which was especially happy and generous on pension day, but she couldn’t invite Muriel inside her house… that would be too much, Muriel might never leave, it would be an invasion. So when Peter was out or out of it, and Muriel had lost her key, they’d sit on Peter’s concreted front verandah, the thick leaves of the yucca curling in the middle of the patch of brown lawn below them, yarning, sharing cups of tea and a laugh. She’d rarely leave Muriel alone when the older woman was waiting like this: although she admitted to herself that it was a kind of procrastination she would have felt guilty going inside to stare at her computer screen while her neighbour sat outside alone.

There’d never been a night so far when someone from Muriel's mob hadn’t either woken up or come home to let Muriel in. But Jenny was beginning to think it wasn't going to happen tonight; it was already 1.30. She thought of her spare room with its neatly made up single bed and was embarrassed and ashamed that she didn't want Muriel in there. She told herself "if it gets to 3am I'll invite her in to sleep."

Muriel had been brought home in a little blue car by a woman from the other side of Marrickville, after being evicted from a taxi. Jenny reckoned that Muriel’s accent along with her alcoholic slurring would have made it impossible for the cabbie to know exactly where she wanted to go – she pronounced “Francis St” as "Prancess St” – but at least he’d got her to Marrickville. The woman in the blue car must have struggled to get both Muriel and her walking frame into the tiny vehicle, and – watering her Jasmine – Jenny had to laugh as she saw the car stop-starting up the street, the walking frame's metal legs sticking out of the hatchback, the driver peering at the numbers in the twilight. Muriel never remembered which house it was.

Jenny & Con

Walking down the steps of Marrickville station, sun already strong enough to fry an egg on one of the metal handrails, she saw Con. A big, overgrown toddler… chunky legs and arms, a huge round face, small features twinkling in its vastness… a big tummy and thick neck. Dressed in ironed shorts, a freshly nappy-san’d white tee shirt, his trademark luminous white runners and socks pulled tightly halfway up his calves.

“It’s coming, train’s coming soon” he said to a small Asian woman carrying an imitation Louis Vuitton handbag.

“Not long now, train’s coming” he told a young man with a goatee and white ipod-ears.

“This platform, train’s coming soon” he told Jenny, and she smiled, “Hi Con, how are you?” He took her hand and kissed her on the cheek, asking her “how are you?” staring into her eyes. At this point in her regular encounters with Con she was always struck by his masculine adultness – the look he was giving her was intense, very much like the kind of unflagging attention she used to get from boys she’d gone to uni with who wanted to... well, you know. But that wasn’t part of Con’s agenda; “train's coming from that way” he said, letting go of her hand to point towards Dulwich Hill. “Train's coming now!” he exclaimed as its nose came around the bend.

As it pulled in, a clattering blur of blue and yellow, Con forgot about Jenny; he was concentrating. He stood planted there, his big runners firmly apart on the platform, fists clenched at his sides in anticipation. The guard, leaning from one of the middle carriages – an Indian woman with a long plait over her shoulder – waved at him as she whooshed past. Just as he’d been waiting for her, she’d been watching out for him. Con was known to all the train workers who came through Marrickville, and the bus drivers for routes 423 and 426 all knew him too… he liked buses nearly as much as he liked trains. After he saw the guard waving at him, Con clapped his arms together like a seal, jiggled on his toe-tips and threw his head back, mouth open in a huge smile.

Jenny had only seen the kind guard’s expectant face for a moment, and yet it was enough to see that the woman had been looking out for Con as much as he’d been looking out for her… And it was then that Jenny realised that she also looked forward to seeing Con, to having him hold her hand and kiss her cheek and look at her with his special sort of intensity. And she felt immensely sad, and suddenly very tired. She let herself get on the train with the crowd, sitting wherever. A heaviness set down on her as she realised that she’d spent last night with Muriel, this morning with Con, neither people who really needed or liked her. She was kidding herself with this good citizen, good samaritan bullshit – it was a way to fill in time, hide her loneliness. These were strangers, not real parts of her life, just props. If she moved suburbs she’d probably never think of them again. Muriel would have another neighbour, perhaps less obliging, but really not much different – after all, Jenny reminded herself with shame, she didn’t allow Muriel into the house – Con didn’t differentiate between Jenny and other kind women around the place who gave him the time of day and let him hold their hands. She felt hollow, flattened, angry with herself, and by the time the train pulled into Central it was all she could do to lift herself out of the seat and start her legs moving to get wherever she was going.

Marrickville Leisureland

Anne Zahalka
Marrickville RSL Club, 2000
type C photograph Edition of 12 (115 x 145 cm); edition of 20 (57 x 72 cm)

The Marrickville RSL is closed for renovations. I hope they don't remove the geometric neon decorations or the mirrored ceiling. The photo above is from Anne Zahalka's "Leisureland" series of which I've been a fan for years (I show students this when we read Derrida, hehehe). If you've come through Sydney's international terminal lately you might have noticed some of Zahalka's beautiful "Welcome to Sydney" series on the walls there.


Over the years I've grown quite fond of this gigantic banner on the RSL's outside wall, and I feel I almost know these four women. I'm guessing it will be taken away or updated. It's been there at least eight years (and has become a bit faded in the sun) and most of the women pictured have probably moved on, perhaps even to other careers, by now.

Australia Day in Enmore Park

Planes roaring overhead, a band with a woman lead singer doing Jimmy Barnes covers, people dancing with kids and babies, everyone with their picnic rugs, and dogs galore. Bats flapping powerfully against the breeze. Then the fireworks. It's quite a small park, and only about 50 square metres were cordoned off for the pyrotechnicians. Chrysanthemums, crackles, wagon wheels and strobes were bursting right above our heads and were incredibly close. There was no music while they were going off, which was wonderful because for the first time since I was a kid I could really hear them. They crack and crackle, screech, fizz and bang. Some sound like massive sparklers, others like surf breaking. Silver streaks wheezed their way upwards before turning into delicate stars.

David from Mount Druitt and Daniel from Marrickville

Boss, a Bull Mastiff cross Great Dane, and Beukannan, both from Marrickville

Dougall, a Boston Terrier, and Glen, both from Newtown

Sophia and Prince
"This is our local park, he's never seen so many people at his local park!"


Andrew and Grant, and their beloved Lily.


Gyoza and Sergei
"He's called Gyoza because he has ears like Japanese dumplings"


Leonie, Sunnai and Booty from Newtown


Bridge Andrews with Oscar and Bosie


Max and Marie


Mary and Lily.
Lily is half Papillon, half Chihuahua; she belongs to Mary's granddaughter Amy.


Standing, from left to right: J-me, Josh & Jika. Sitting, from left to right: Alex & Jermaine.
They all go to Marrickville High.


Margo and Sam from Enmore.


Glen Moss of Petersham and Charles Guarroch of Penrith.
They work for Marrickville Council.


Denny Burgess from Newtown

Guess who's coming to play?

I'm very pleased to announce that Marrickvillia is about to have a new contributor, my friend Grant. He's been an inner-westie forever (he won't cross College St) and now lives in North Marrickville, excitingly close to the Marrickville Metro. He promises a post on his favourite cake shop, and possibly something about musk sticks, too. He's a talented redheaded flirty but stern kind of fellow, if you can picture that. Please make him welcome everybody!

Young people today, my oh my

Goodness, the things you hear on the 423 bus if you get in with the after school crowd. Two boys in school uniform, about fifteen years old. One tall with dark curly hair, the other small and blonde. They stood near where I was sitting, and there was a spare seat next to me. The tall one said to the small one, "stand here, beautiful." My ears pricked up - did he really say that? - was he talking to the other boy, or is there a girl around? - or did I hear wrong? Then the little blonde one said to the tall curly-headed one "Why don't you sit down?" To which his friend replied quite clearly and seriously "I'm not sitting down unless you can too, my love."

Boarding House Masquerade Ball

Last night I went to the Marrickville Boarding House Masquerade Ball at the Petersham Bowling Club. I got there too late to hear the Sydney Street Choir but I'm looking forward to doing that another time. It was a really great party with excellent dancing and singing along to "YMCA", "Mamma Mia" and "Red Red Wine". Lots of the people were wearing masks, hats and other pieces of finery they'd made themselves at the "Get Frocked Up" workshops run by Marrickville Council. It seemed that everyone wanted to have their photo taken so I spent the evening clicking away happily.

Click on the photos to see bigger versions. My favourites: the woman with the pink faux fur coat (left, third row from the top), and the elegantly aloof man with the amazing blue eyes (left, second row from the top) because they look like a couple of movie stars.

If you're in one of these photos and you would like a free print copy, just email me your name and address and the number of the photo at meredith.r.jones@gmail.com

Much more than a Michael Jackson impersonator

Late last year I had some emails & blogger interactions with Lucas of The Sham, about Richard Blackie, a Michael Jackson impersonator who ran a toyshop in Petersham until he died. Lucas wrote about Richard's death, then his funeral, here and here. Nobody seems to know what happened to Richard's dogs, and I wondered if one of them was Dero Dog (see links in my sidebar). Anyway, a film has been made about this remarkable character and it's showing tomorrow night. Sadly I can't go as I'm teaching, but I'll see it some other time. If you're interested, the Mu-Meson Archives venue is on the corner of Parramatta Rd & Trafalgar St Annandale at the end of the King Furniture building, up the steel staircase. Phone 9517-2010.
Thursday 30^th August
Directors Cut: Maya Newell -
RICHARD The Most Interestingest Person I've Ever Met

A stark, bittersweet, and, at times, humorous portrait of Richard Blackie - consummate eccentric, toy collector and former Michael Jackson impersonator - whose public obsessions and private torments are laid bare in this devastating portrayal of the last few months of his life. Seventeen year-old filmmaker, Maya Newell, enters the inner sanctum of Richard Blackie's extraordinary, utterly bizarre toyshop. Striking up a curious relationship with the 41-year-old toy dealer, collector and ex-Michael Jackson impersonator, Maya is given permission to document the life of this most private of private characters, and the obsessions that drive him. Maya will be live in the Archives to present her film and answerer questions about the production.

	Mu-Meson Archives
	Doors 7.30 for 8pm start
	$10 with supper

Marrickville Kids

This photo was taken in 1978, at the Addison Rd Community Centre. Marrickville's Magic Yellow Bus, which is still operational, is in the background. I thought I'd take some photos of some of the lovely children I see each week at the Addison Rd Markets, which are held at the Community Centre (I asked permissions and all parents know these photos are going up online).

This is Dutch. I didn't ask if Dutch was a boy or a girl. One thing that is certain - Dutch has a knitter/crocheter who loves him/her dearly.

This is Rory, who was enjoying her babyccino.


Here are some old dolls that the guy who has all the tools and electrical things was selling.


And this is Jake, who looks like a China doll but is a real boy.