No Night Sweats N o  N i g h t  S w e a t s No Night Sweats
Sydney's Post-Punk Bands
I Like Music
Slapp Happy are Terrific
A List of CDs
Text is What I Write
Crime Fiction is Silly
[ Kissy Kissy ]
When I was just a nipper there were two girls that lived in my street. One of these I kissed and the other I bonked on the head. We used to wander around the lane at the back of our houses and act out our favourite episodes from "The Samurai". I took all the meaty roles because, at five years old, I was more mature than the others and could obviously understand the human condition to a finer degree. Horrifyingly to me, my skills as an actor faded as I grew up - what a loss to stage and screen it has turned out to be. 

The girl down the road was called Vicki. She had lustrous blonde hair, a pert turned up nose and a lovely smile. One day she was going home after another tiring day of jumping backwards into trees and yelling out 'Shintaro'. I knew that she liked me and I'm fairly certain that I loved her in my own little kids way and so I decided to give her a kiss. I took her out to the front yard where the traffic continued to rumble heavily, made sure that no-one was looking (ofcourse, my Mum saw it all) and then gave her a sloppy wet kiss on the lips. It was a terribly exciting moment for me even though I didn't really know why but she just sort of looked up in a funny way and giggled. I made her promise not to tell anyone - a secret at last! - and then rushed inside to replay the 'action' all over again. This was our one and only kiss for some reason and by the time I was a teen I didn't even notice her any more. 

The girl who lived next door was called Margaret. She had lank brown hair, a long, bookish nose and a lovely smile. A few years after we'd given up on play-acting there still wasn't much to do in the area. So I decided to swing a large plunger around and around and around and then let it fly through the air. Oh Joy! (I should note for no reason at all that this plunger was made by my Dad and, as such, had a fairly rough hewn quality about it - it worked perfectly well but it would never win a design award, that's for sure). I started the swinging action - not unlike an Olympic hammer thrower - but Margaret wanted to play as well. I told her to go into the shed and peek out from the doorway - this was a very dangerous operation indeed. She hid away and I started again. At my moment of most giddiness I let the plunger go and it flew through the air, oh so gracefully, right towards the shed and hit my stunned next door neighbour directly on the forehead. She started to scream and so did I - there went my dreams of glory on track and field - and I rushed over to see what the real damage was. An enourmous egg shaped lump had formed above her left eye. There was obvoiusly no way to keep this one a secret. We never played again and a kiss definitely wasn't on the cards either.
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