It's Absolutely Fabulous, Darling, But How's The Pizza

The Age

Tuesday September 5, 1995

SHARON GRAY

AFTER our fourth move in 15 years, I was so overcome I took leave from this column for the first time in 12 years. I hardly knew myself; for two Saturdays in a row I spent my time shuffling boxes instead of getting quietly into bed, closing the door and disappearing into my laptop computer.

Finally, there is some order. I have decided to get rid of at least half the books and I'm in bed again writing the column to the gentle roar of a worn-out central-heating fan in my new bedroom, which has absolutely everything built-in like a boat.

This house is very exciting not only our first built-ins and central heating but a dishwasher and security lights. Very fine. And a lovely wooden floor to polish. I love polishing wood better than bloody silver. It is altogether the most respectable house we have ever lived in. More important, it is the home of my old friend, now dowager landlady, and is filled with the memories of her wonderful father whose death has bestowed this upon us.

I first came here in 1965. We used to climb in and out of the windows drunk and giggling, sneaking away in the night.

Her parents were tolerant, interested, forgiving and diminutive Jewish communists from Galicia in Poland. I had never met communists before, nor Jews. Their friends were communists, too, and as Monash students at the time of the NLF wars we were rapidly engaged in argument and discussion.

They talked about the poor, the oppressed, the workers. They talked globally, had ham radios, subscribed to Russian newspapers. The collapse of the Soviet dream broke a lot of their hearts. They came to dinners bearing favorite dishes and sang soft old songs in Yiddish over a small vodka, cherished an argument and hated religion. My friend's father would have crinkled his wonderful sparkly eyes with delight to hear an old friend preach over his coffin that ``all management are bastards!"

He made pots, beautiful big smooth pots sitting alongside my piano. There is also his second daughter's piano. Two big old German pianos side by side such bourgeoisie! I cannot touch a thing in the hall, nor do I want to. I have spent a lot of time living with ghosts it all works out in the end but, golly, it takes time.

While I was packing up my collection of ``good big envelopes I can use again", I suddenly found one addressed to me by my sister. Hot blood and tears tore around my body and I quickly put it into a safe place. Suddenly every scrap of her handwriting was so precious, even though she died five years ago. So there's plenty of room for this dear old man.

And where is it? ``Braighton" of course! A macrobiotic experience for the kid who was born on the floor in Were Street the day after the old man's lovely wife died, 15 years ago.

We have big karma in Brighton. There's no escape, I'm trapped in a middle-class plot. And it's nothing to do with money we own nothing, drive the worst-looking car with everything stolen out of it; we still qualify for health card benefits.

But you can't say ``Braighton" without people going ``Oh ho!" like you've got a new Mercedes outside and you're blonde.

Well it's probably good for me that people think I've got money; the poor are so very unsettling.

I've only had time for one stroll down Church Street but she's still there, Brighton Barbie in blonde with sunnies and a lot of gold. She's slim, tanned and absolutely ageless.

I love her. I hang off her every word. And now she's sitting outside this absolutely flash cafe in the sunshine under her hat and sunnies, on the phone drinking cafe latte. And there are even quite a few men in the place. It's on a roundabout and you can just drive slowly round a few times looking for your mates before deciding to park. Church Street always had its own traffic rules.

I met a wealthy, powerful woman the other day and said so to an ex-society girlfriend and she asked ``Toorak or Malvern".

``I don't know what you mean," I said. ``Yes you do," she said. So I thought about it for a bit and said, ``Yes, Toorak.

" In Toorak, if you're rich and powerful you can just emit this essence that warns the riff-raff to watch out. In Malvern, they're more apologetic, sort of gently rich. In Brighton, they're more Floridian fond of show, yet somehow there is a kind of competition to be tanned, slim and constantly on holiday.

Spare the old communists their honor, this used to be Elsternwick and the kid tells his mates he lives ``near Elwood". Elwood is cool. Brighton is geriatric. Elsternwick is Jewish, which is great if I wasn't on a diet. (Doctor's orders the only thing that was going to stop me exploding myself.) But after some consideration, Elwood looks like having the only pizza joints worth ordering from on Friday nights, my son's special sabbath. East Bentleigh beats Brighton hollow for cheap, good pizza. The higher the real estate, the lousier the pizza, and we would both like to take this opportunity to shamelessly recommend Telex Pizza in Centre Road, East Bentleigh, and tell them we miss them already.