As a pre-schooler, it was the night Dad used to skin our kiwi fruit and play our favourite game, ‘Uncle’. He would sit on the wooden bench he’d been given as a gift in Zimbabwe, and make the three of us run the gauntlet down our Victorian era hallway. Every second run he would catch us, still seated, and render us defenseless with tickles and laughter.
It was also the night Mum would work the late shift. Around 9, we would hear the distinctive hum of the Volvo and make for bed, catching the light first. She would plonk down the hallway, with no one left awake to tickle her, and summons us with a call – “Bubbies, it’s _ _ _ _ _ _ time!” We would wipe away bogus sleep and fumble into the bathroom, alert, with eyes half-closed.
“It’s _ _ _ _ _ _ time! Time to brush your _ _ _ _ _ _ s!” And we would, we would brush our _ _ _ _ _ _s.
Wednesdays you miss the strangest of things. Tonight, on the way to practice with Citizen Sex, we will pick up a slab and a bottle of Jager. We will write songs about prostitutes and New Year’s resolutions to stop making pornography.
It’s on the way home, full of Melbourne Bitter, with not a bottle of MoMo or wooden bench in sight, that I will miss Wednesdays past.
In particular, I’ll miss _ _ _ _ _ _ time.
