The Butcherbird

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The two Rolls-Royce engines buried in the bowels of the Honey Bear fired up with a deep-throated roar as the tangerine light of a late autumn sunset washed the castles lining the shores of Sydney’s eastern suburbs. Inside these exquisitely coordinated temples of taste-in the art deco style, or the Gothic style, or the French fifties style, or the French provincial style, or the God knows what style, and even in one, for reasons that none of the other owners could possibly fathom, an attempt at an ‘Australian’ style, which included such items as a dining table that had once served in a shearers’ mess together with a variety of farm implements scattered about the room, none of which were in fact Australian-women were shedding little tennis dresses in order to bathe before dining in some bistro that refused to take bookings, or explaining to friends on their B amp;O walkarounds why Charles was a wimp in every sense of the word, or rubbing their recently waxed thighs with special rose cream made in Portugal and only sold in one shop with no name, or screaming at their husbands who had arrived home early, for no reason, with no presents, no plans for dinner and a paunch that, in the dim light of dusk, looked even more prominent than it had that morning.

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