I was sharing a pot of tea with my wife Jane at the Utzi Cafe in the Burnside Village ̶ next thing a former friend, well I think I’ll call him that, from my evenings at the Wildwood Gallery in Grenfell Street, comes up to the table. Wildwood Gallery had art on display but was also a place where people could recite their writing to anyone coming down into the basement.
In no time at all he’s standing against the table talking. Has the one metre rule gone? I don’t think so!
It’s not that I wasn’t delighted to see him. Well I tell a lie. We were having a private conversation and he joins in. He says, ‘Remember performing our writing at the Gallery?’ Then talks on and on about the good old days.
Wildwood is where I started reading my slightly humorous stories.
‘You remember my stories don’t you Robert.’
Andrew’s specialty was the monologue and I mean monologue. We would pass the candle around from person to person, to who was reciting. When it got to him, the candle would go out while he was still reciting.
A few people came off the street to listen and to look at the paintings. With Andrew reciting, their eyes would glaze over and up the stairs they would go out to Grenfell Street.
He was retelling a story about sharing a taxi home with Jane and I could see her eyes glaze over as on and on he went. Suddenly he says to us, ‘That’s Frank over there. Remember, he sold the odd painting. Do you mind if I talk to him?’
‘By all means,’ I say. Before he could say, ”Frank remember me?” we were hiding in Coles across from Utzi.
Burnside Writers Group 