The Worst of Perth

Phwoar, me own bum bags. Might wear em to the Booker. He pulled them up and the fish seemed to dart and ripple around the twin coral bommies of his thighs. “All me fish. Herring, the shitfish,  those little dunnies of the sea. He had first used them in Cloud Street, (or was it Open Swimmer?). The salmon he had written about in well all of them really, especially after the old man shot through. Phwoar, the Tailor. Definitely used one in Breath. No wait, Dirt Music. Bet Coetzee didn’t have custom shorts. 

No blowies though. Not even a norwester, like they’d see on those hot mornings when the easterly was still blowing the tops off the chop and sand into your crack and dad would say careful,  they’ll chop your big toe off if you let ’em! And the blowies buck teeth would remind him of Becky before the braces went in. Smile like a mountain goat, smelling of musk sticks and chicos…ahh. Her breasts then like mini quiches under the grey woollen jumper and even the hard suspension of the old Hino bus could get much of a bounce out of them. Back then. Back then.