The cherry on the cake of my family's round-the-world trip in 1970 for me was definitely Disneyland. On my birthday. Like, wow!
As the child of relentless travellers, I often felt a trifle neglected when confronted with yet another cathedral, art gallery, museum and so on. And remember this was back in the day before child-friendly exhibits. I was occasionally rewarded with a trip to the local zoo, which could be a bit hit-or-miss, depending on how the poor animals were housed.
So far this trip I'd enjoyed some child-minding on the QE2 (on its ferry-trip from Southhampton to New York), I'd poured my Slinky down many hotel stairs, and I'd gone trick-or-treating (as a tiger) on the streets of suburban Philly. But I'd also had to endure many hours on Greyhound buses, as this was my father's favoured way of seeing the US. I get car-sick in buses, so I slept a lot of the way. But towards the end of our trip, we suddenly boarded a plane in New Mexico, and landed in California a short time later.
On our taxi ride from the airport to the hotel late at night, I woke up enough to see a sign printed with the outline of a castle, pointing the way to Disneyland. In my best-behaviour voice I asked if we "might just go and have a look at the castle, even just from the outside, we don't have to go in." This caused my parents to dissolve in laughter and explain to me that the entire day - my eighth birthday! - was to be spent at the theme park.
I don't know how I slept, but I was up early and clad in my birthday best for the day. And my father and I went on every ride that was open. I think my mother had a very boring day. Of course, a few rides were closed (it was November, after all) so I never went on the Pirates of the Caribbean. But I did go in the submarine ride, and on a rocketship, and in the Ghost House (twice!). I didn't get Mickey ears but I did get my name on a straw boater to take away with me, along with a blur of memories. I pulled Pinocchio's nose (poor man-in-the head) and he pulled mine back.
Best. Birthday. Ever.
1983 - Niterider
I've been trying to find a premise for a blog for so long now - because the best ones I've read have a central theme. It finally came to me in a dream, when after many years behind a computer or a microphone, I found myself dreaming about taking food and drink orders. That led me to reminisce about my time behind the tray, and think about all the jobs, I've done and the places I've lived in. So here's my first blog entry, about my year with Niterider Theatre Restaurant.
Following a wild long weekend at the Narara Australian Music Festival I decided I needed to find a weekend job to help me pay my way through university. After a discouraging day of confessing my complete lack of skills to various restaurants - and the discovery I was under-qualified for a position at a topless bar* - I was relieved to pour my tired sunburned self down the stairs of Chequers, where Niterider Theatre Restaurant had been yeehawing for a few years.
*Card-holding member of the committee* for many years.
*The itty bitty titty committee, sheesh! Do I have to explain everything?
Following a brief but brisk interview by co-owner Doug Malcolm I was told to "buy a pair of cowboy boots, a pair of moccasins and be sure to bring stockings" - but was assured the rest of the costume would be provided. He told me to turn up for the next show "to see how it all works" and then I'd be rostered on. Although the prospect of forking out my non-existent cash for footwear I'd otherwise never consider dismayed me somewhat, actually gaining employment without the faintest idea of what I was doing gave me a great feeling. I was also pleased to be hired despite the fact that my burnt skin had begun to slough istelf from my body in large strips, and from my face in great flakes.
It was possibly the best place I could have found a job, as the set menu required no food service. The kitchen provided soup for the first course, sliced beef, potatoes and vegetables for the second, and apple pie for dessert. All I was responsible for was serving the food and bringing the drinks, which the patrons required in large quantities and as quickly as possible. Each table had a card, on which the waitresses wrote down their drink orders. The bar staff would then load trays with these orders, placing the cards on top. At the end of the night, the bar staff would total the orders, the tables would pay and tip the waitresses, and amble home replete.
In theory, at least. I've seen some almost stand-up fights over the bar tab, when some on the table were drinking wine while others were downing cocktails. And my job wasn't made any easier by the fact that although I am chronically short-sighted, my vanity meant that I wouldn't wear my glasses in public. Too poor for contact lenses, I would instruct my tables to "wave vigorously" at me if they wanted service.
The staff were a motley lot, many of them the actor/model type, who felt that working at a theatre restaurant was better than hauling plates in a cafe. Of course the waitresses* were "part of the show," beginning the night as cowgirls, in a hat, shirt, fringed vest and skirt, and cowboy boots. A quick-change during the show meant whipping off the shirt, hat and boots, adding a feather, some war-paint and moccasins to transform into Indian squaws*.
*Pre-equal opportunity, the floor staff were women and the bar staff were men. No exceptions.
*Not Native Americans, either.
After a bit of a rocky start, a year working at Niterider meant I was often given tables of 20 or 30, with big bills and therefore big tips. I was pretty good at my job, often upselling wines, pushing the more-expensive cocktails, and talking patrons into liqueur coffees. A couple of the waitresses were hoofers, so they got to have less tables and put on frills and feathers to dance the can-can with the cast. We all envied them, although doing the splits every night seemed a high price to pay for an easy ride. One of them, Viv, became my closest friend for many years, and I believe she was responsible for suggesting the infamous "waitresses' party" which caused Doug to almost have heart failure that New Years' Eve.
As I lived in the nearby inner-city suburb of Surry Hills, I was the obvious hostess for the party. A group of waitresses gathered in the early afternoon to celebrate before New Year's. Because as anyone who's had to do it can tell you, working on that night - especially handing drinks to revellers - is one of the most depressing things you can do. So we consumed champagne, Peking duck pancakes and several expertly-rolled joints, before teetering down the stairs in a pile of giggles.
I still have photographs from that party, and we all look - besides ridiculously young and thin - so happy. That's despite horrific unemployment in Australia, coming off the back of a recession. Maybe we were encouraged by winning the America's Cup. I suppose I had reason to be happy, as I was about to embark on a round-the world holiday paid for by my mother, as a reward for completing and passing my first year at uni. How poorly I was to repay her, dropping out within a month of returning, as I thought I'd been bitten by the travel bug and wanted to earn money. And within a year I'd be married - in a relationship doomed to failure.
But I look at Sue and Viv and all the other girls on my sofa in that Surry Hills terrace and I remember singing "Maxine" in the dressing-room before the night's work, dancing to Hayzee Fantayzee and Boston after we'd booted the punters out for the night, and getting my first (and only, to date) tattoo. It's funny but while my memories of university seem faded and patchy, my recollections of Niterider are clear and bright. I must have been having fun.
Following a wild long weekend at the Narara Australian Music Festival I decided I needed to find a weekend job to help me pay my way through university. After a discouraging day of confessing my complete lack of skills to various restaurants - and the discovery I was under-qualified for a position at a topless bar* - I was relieved to pour my tired sunburned self down the stairs of Chequers, where Niterider Theatre Restaurant had been yeehawing for a few years.
*Card-holding member of the committee* for many years.
*The itty bitty titty committee, sheesh! Do I have to explain everything?
Following a brief but brisk interview by co-owner Doug Malcolm I was told to "buy a pair of cowboy boots, a pair of moccasins and be sure to bring stockings" - but was assured the rest of the costume would be provided. He told me to turn up for the next show "to see how it all works" and then I'd be rostered on. Although the prospect of forking out my non-existent cash for footwear I'd otherwise never consider dismayed me somewhat, actually gaining employment without the faintest idea of what I was doing gave me a great feeling. I was also pleased to be hired despite the fact that my burnt skin had begun to slough istelf from my body in large strips, and from my face in great flakes.
It was possibly the best place I could have found a job, as the set menu required no food service. The kitchen provided soup for the first course, sliced beef, potatoes and vegetables for the second, and apple pie for dessert. All I was responsible for was serving the food and bringing the drinks, which the patrons required in large quantities and as quickly as possible. Each table had a card, on which the waitresses wrote down their drink orders. The bar staff would then load trays with these orders, placing the cards on top. At the end of the night, the bar staff would total the orders, the tables would pay and tip the waitresses, and amble home replete.
In theory, at least. I've seen some almost stand-up fights over the bar tab, when some on the table were drinking wine while others were downing cocktails. And my job wasn't made any easier by the fact that although I am chronically short-sighted, my vanity meant that I wouldn't wear my glasses in public. Too poor for contact lenses, I would instruct my tables to "wave vigorously" at me if they wanted service.
The staff were a motley lot, many of them the actor/model type, who felt that working at a theatre restaurant was better than hauling plates in a cafe. Of course the waitresses* were "part of the show," beginning the night as cowgirls, in a hat, shirt, fringed vest and skirt, and cowboy boots. A quick-change during the show meant whipping off the shirt, hat and boots, adding a feather, some war-paint and moccasins to transform into Indian squaws*.
*Pre-equal opportunity, the floor staff were women and the bar staff were men. No exceptions.
*Not Native Americans, either.
After a bit of a rocky start, a year working at Niterider meant I was often given tables of 20 or 30, with big bills and therefore big tips. I was pretty good at my job, often upselling wines, pushing the more-expensive cocktails, and talking patrons into liqueur coffees. A couple of the waitresses were hoofers, so they got to have less tables and put on frills and feathers to dance the can-can with the cast. We all envied them, although doing the splits every night seemed a high price to pay for an easy ride. One of them, Viv, became my closest friend for many years, and I believe she was responsible for suggesting the infamous "waitresses' party" which caused Doug to almost have heart failure that New Years' Eve.
As I lived in the nearby inner-city suburb of Surry Hills, I was the obvious hostess for the party. A group of waitresses gathered in the early afternoon to celebrate before New Year's. Because as anyone who's had to do it can tell you, working on that night - especially handing drinks to revellers - is one of the most depressing things you can do. So we consumed champagne, Peking duck pancakes and several expertly-rolled joints, before teetering down the stairs in a pile of giggles.
I still have photographs from that party, and we all look - besides ridiculously young and thin - so happy. That's despite horrific unemployment in Australia, coming off the back of a recession. Maybe we were encouraged by winning the America's Cup. I suppose I had reason to be happy, as I was about to embark on a round-the world holiday paid for by my mother, as a reward for completing and passing my first year at uni. How poorly I was to repay her, dropping out within a month of returning, as I thought I'd been bitten by the travel bug and wanted to earn money. And within a year I'd be married - in a relationship doomed to failure.
But I look at Sue and Viv and all the other girls on my sofa in that Surry Hills terrace and I remember singing "Maxine" in the dressing-room before the night's work, dancing to Hayzee Fantayzee and Boston after we'd booted the punters out for the night, and getting my first (and only, to date) tattoo. It's funny but while my memories of university seem faded and patchy, my recollections of Niterider are clear and bright. I must have been having fun.
1978 - Not-so-sweet 16
My father still reminds me about this birthday, which remains one of my clearest and best memories of my high school years in Canberra. He was solo parenting at the time, as my mother had taken one of her periodic trips to India to visit her parents. We'd had a hoot of a time, eating out regularly and going to the movies. I particularly remember seeing Pretty Baby together, no doubt for the New Orleans backdrop he's never seen in real life.
Life was pretty good for me at the time. My mother and I have never been close, so her absence was felt more for the lack of constant bickering rather than a sense of loss. I had a serious boyfriend - Andrew - and the lead in the school play, "Bye Bye Birdie". My closest girl friends all did Drama with me, and so I had the idea of a party that would be a complete improvisation.*
*Cheesy, I know, but I was 16, fer gossake!
I only have a vague recollection about the premise for the storyline, but it involved a death. We all dressed in black and had been summoned for the reading of the will. Of course we were all related to the imaginary deceased man - some as his children, others his wives, lovers, perhaps employees? I still have the photos of Joy in a black hat and sunglasses, and Bernie with a black lace veil. And I remember when someone arrived (was it Cheryl or Cathy?) it happened to coincide with the sound of a chopper overhead - so they played it seamlessly as if it had just dropped them off.
It was that year that saw the blossoming of my interest in the kitchen, so of course I catered the entire affair. My mother was buying a series of magazines from Good Housekeeping (which I have to this day) that offered step-by-step instructions for various gourmet goodies. I can't recall the appetizers (although it would probably have included some dip and cheeses) but I'm proud to recall I produced Chicken Kiev with Pommes Anna and finished with Chocolate Bavarois.
And for the entire affair we were waited on by my father. In his black trousers, stiff-fronted shirt and bow tie. He was addressed as "James" for the whole evening (his middle name) and boy did we keep him busy! I don't have a single picture of him that night, which saddens me. I know this memory will be one I'll keep with me when he dies. The last time he mentioned it to me, he said it occurred to him the other girls' parents might not surrender them so easily to such an affair in these days of perverts-behind-every-bush. But it was the best of times - and no doubt one of the most fun and inventive parties I've ever had.
Life was pretty good for me at the time. My mother and I have never been close, so her absence was felt more for the lack of constant bickering rather than a sense of loss. I had a serious boyfriend - Andrew - and the lead in the school play, "Bye Bye Birdie". My closest girl friends all did Drama with me, and so I had the idea of a party that would be a complete improvisation.*
*Cheesy, I know, but I was 16, fer gossake!
I only have a vague recollection about the premise for the storyline, but it involved a death. We all dressed in black and had been summoned for the reading of the will. Of course we were all related to the imaginary deceased man - some as his children, others his wives, lovers, perhaps employees? I still have the photos of Joy in a black hat and sunglasses, and Bernie with a black lace veil. And I remember when someone arrived (was it Cheryl or Cathy?) it happened to coincide with the sound of a chopper overhead - so they played it seamlessly as if it had just dropped them off.
It was that year that saw the blossoming of my interest in the kitchen, so of course I catered the entire affair. My mother was buying a series of magazines from Good Housekeeping (which I have to this day) that offered step-by-step instructions for various gourmet goodies. I can't recall the appetizers (although it would probably have included some dip and cheeses) but I'm proud to recall I produced Chicken Kiev with Pommes Anna and finished with Chocolate Bavarois.
And for the entire affair we were waited on by my father. In his black trousers, stiff-fronted shirt and bow tie. He was addressed as "James" for the whole evening (his middle name) and boy did we keep him busy! I don't have a single picture of him that night, which saddens me. I know this memory will be one I'll keep with me when he dies. The last time he mentioned it to me, he said it occurred to him the other girls' parents might not surrender them so easily to such an affair in these days of perverts-behind-every-bush. But it was the best of times - and no doubt one of the most fun and inventive parties I've ever had.
1985 - Lost in Bendigo
Possibly the most miserable year of my life, 1985 saw me confined to an army married quarter in Bendigo, largely jobless, with a husband who was sent on every live-in course known to man, leaving me alone in a strange town with no money. So why would I want to write about this? Well, there were moments of joy I remember very clearly - particularly Live Aid and The Young Ones.
In Australia the national broadcaster - the ABC - decided The Young Ones was so controversial it could only be broadcast really late at night. On a weeknight. Which meant it was heaven-sent for a chronically-unemployed army wife. And I would have missed it, if I hadn't been staying up to watch Rock Arena - and Suzanne Dowling told me not to turn off the TV. What followed was so surreal and so hilarious, I couldn't sleep once it was over.
I wasn't to know that virtually the whole country would eventually embrace Rick, Mike, Neil and Vyvyan as whole-heartedly as I did that first night. Back then I could only wonder at the loopy genius that brought me the episode called Boring, with dancing vegetables out of the fridge and Kitchener sitting at the kitchen table. I guess I could empathise with Boring - because my life was pretty tedious at that stage.
My lifeline was the library, where I think I read every science fiction book they had. And then there was the pretty boring live music scene, where I followed one band around because I was smitten with the lead guitarist. Who was married and had a girlfriend. I mentioned I was married, right? It was a relationship that wasn't to last much longer, and no doubt my truly awful behaviour while living in Bendigo didn't help.
Although I had no money, I still had the telephone, and could call friends in Sydney. The phone bill reached dizzying heights as I called - often late at night - to try and chase away the mind-numbing boredom. My friend Elaine posted me marijuana (with no return address) as of course I had no friends and no source of illicit joy. I recall a marathon phone session with her, both smoking our stashes, while Live Aid was on. We'd talk for half an hour, hang up, have a break, then call back. It's hard now to recall which performer struck me the most, as I've seen much of the footage over and over again since on music channels. But I do remember Madonna on stage in Philly saying "I ain't taking shit off today" and the majesty of King Freddie and Queen and Bowie and U2.
Shortly after this I got some temporary work with Telecom (now Telstra) and made friends with Jackie, a serial fantasist who would introduce my then-husband to his next wife. Funny how life works, isn't it?
In Australia the national broadcaster - the ABC - decided The Young Ones was so controversial it could only be broadcast really late at night. On a weeknight. Which meant it was heaven-sent for a chronically-unemployed army wife. And I would have missed it, if I hadn't been staying up to watch Rock Arena - and Suzanne Dowling told me not to turn off the TV. What followed was so surreal and so hilarious, I couldn't sleep once it was over.
I wasn't to know that virtually the whole country would eventually embrace Rick, Mike, Neil and Vyvyan as whole-heartedly as I did that first night. Back then I could only wonder at the loopy genius that brought me the episode called Boring, with dancing vegetables out of the fridge and Kitchener sitting at the kitchen table. I guess I could empathise with Boring - because my life was pretty tedious at that stage.
My lifeline was the library, where I think I read every science fiction book they had. And then there was the pretty boring live music scene, where I followed one band around because I was smitten with the lead guitarist. Who was married and had a girlfriend. I mentioned I was married, right? It was a relationship that wasn't to last much longer, and no doubt my truly awful behaviour while living in Bendigo didn't help.
Although I had no money, I still had the telephone, and could call friends in Sydney. The phone bill reached dizzying heights as I called - often late at night - to try and chase away the mind-numbing boredom. My friend Elaine posted me marijuana (with no return address) as of course I had no friends and no source of illicit joy. I recall a marathon phone session with her, both smoking our stashes, while Live Aid was on. We'd talk for half an hour, hang up, have a break, then call back. It's hard now to recall which performer struck me the most, as I've seen much of the footage over and over again since on music channels. But I do remember Madonna on stage in Philly saying "I ain't taking shit off today" and the majesty of King Freddie and Queen and Bowie and U2.
Shortly after this I got some temporary work with Telecom (now Telstra) and made friends with Jackie, a serial fantasist who would introduce my then-husband to his next wife. Funny how life works, isn't it?
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