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than one alumnus had gone on to feature in a distinctively quirky Australian film.
    His mother, of course, took a dim view. Her idea of a proper career was law, medicine or one of the other money-harvesting professions. But the kid was hot to tread the boards. He’d already scored a walk-on in ‘Heartbreak High’ and two lines in ‘Blue Heelers’ , and in my wild erratic fancy visions came to me of him holding aloft a gold statuette and thanking the father who’d backed him all the way. If only to give his mother the shits. Currently, he was codpiece-deep in an upcoming production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.
    â€˜Dunno why you’re pissing around with this poncey thespian stuff,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with plumbing? Steady work and the money’s good. You could start by learning how to operate the dishwasher, not just fill it up with concrete-encrusted cereal bowls.’
    â€˜Don’t change the subject. If you haven’t got a fete to open or a ship to launch, we could put in a couple of hours.’
    If memory served, my schedule was clear.
    â€˜Let’s call it a strong maybe,’ I said. ‘Die young, stay pretty. Worked for James Dean.’
    Well pleased, Red microwaved a brace of individual self-saucing butterscotch puddings which we ate on the sofa watching ‘The Simpsons’. When he drifted back to his homework, I pulled a cork and retired to my hermitage.
    Ah, gentrification. What started life as a laundry at the rear of the building was now a snug little hideaway, just big enough to accommodate my Spooner cartoons, archive boxes, books and music, and an authentic op-shop Jason Recliner. Its side door opened onto a small patio—a bed of white pebbles beside the ivy-clad wall of the next-door neighbour’s garage.
    I kicked off my shoes, cued an audio cassette and declined on the davenport. There was a hiss, then a male voice spoke.
    â€˜Mαθημα Δεκα,’ it said.
    â€˜Mαθημα Δεκα,’ I responded.
    Melbourne swarms with Grecians. And having spent half my life up to my taramasalata in the progeny of Hellas, I’d decided it was high time I learned how to order my souvlaki in the demotic. So, earlier in the year, I’d enrolled in a beginners’ course in Greek.
    â€˜Î£Ï„ο σταθμο του τραινου.’
    â€™ So far, by diligent application, I’d managed to acquire the conversational skills of a speech-impaired three-year-old. On the up side, most of my classmates were female. And a man in my situation takes his opportunities wherever he can find them.
    One classmate in particular had caught my eye. Her name was Andrea Lane, but she was Lanie to her friends and that was the tag by which she’d introduced herself to the class. Our teacher mistook it for Eleni. It was an apt elision. Helen, she who eloped with the Trojan Paris.
    Lanie’s may not have been the face that launched a thousand ships, but it definitely floated my little rubber duckie. She was cheerful, sardonic and fetchingly full-figured. Naturally, she was already taken.
    Hubby had picked her up after one of the first classes, their pubescent daughter in tow. He was a dopey-looking dork, reeking of academia. With any luck, he’d be struck by some fatal skin disease, turn into a mass of weeping pustules and retire to a leper colony. I would comfort his lonely wife and one thing would lead to another. Until that happened, I could only put my hopes for conjugation on hold, try not to ogle her too obviously during class and buff my conversational skills.
    â€˜Î•Ï‡ÎµÎ¹Ï‚ πολυ ωραια ποδια,’ I recited. ‘ Ti ora fevgi to treno ?’
    After thirty minutes and four glasses of Penfolds Bin 28, my concentration was flagging. I stopped the tape, took my wine out to the