A bob

In 1959, a newly enrolled scholar at Footscray West Primary School, I was looking forward with intense anticipation to attending a show to be staged in the school grounds by a travelling menagerie. Not that I knew that word then; to me it was 'the animal show'.

They had the usual lineup of suspects for travelling animal shows; snakes, goannas, possums, probably a dog trained to do tricks. I don't remember that they didn't have Koalas and Kangaroos but, given the difficulty of feeding those animals in captivity, I'm completely sure they weren't represented. Indeed, the Koala is so notoriously difficult to feed that the number of zoos featuring them is severely restricted in Australia let alone overseas.

Entrance to the show was a shilling. That was an appreciable sum in 1959 to a family living in West Footscray though I didn't really know much about the matter. I do remember the following year my mother scrimping and saving so she could pay the ten shillings and sixpence for my entry to the Footscray YMCA for three months. You know, I've only just realised that meant a year was 2 pounds and 2 shillings or 2 guineas. Surely the Footscray YMCA weren't working on guineas!

Alas my YMCA days were numbered though Mum didn't know it. Even at the ripe old age of 5 my aversion to organised sports, indeed, sports of any kind, were manifest. That's not the same as saying that I sit around the house; I walk at least 5 miles every day. I just don't get excited over fighting for an inflated ball.

The day of the animal show I was handed my shilling by my grandmother with strict instructions to guard it and hand it over to the teacher. Off to school I trotted, shilling closely guarded in my hand. At this distance of time I don't remember the circumstances of its loss; all I remember is that it was lost!

Sometime during the day those kids who'd fronted up the dosh were herded into the tent pitched on school grounds. I vividly remember walking across the school yard, tears streaming down my (then) cute little face and wailing like a banshee. One of the teachers, doubtless steeling herself for yet another emotional encounter with a child, stopped me and asked what was wrong. I explained.

And somehow a miracle occurred. I was allowed into that tent. Maturity tells me she either contributed a bob or she did some special pleading (or maybe the school had a slush fund for such emergencies). I can't even remember if she was young or old or what her name was (she wasn't my teacher) but she had and has my undying gratitude.

Oh, this is my 500th blog entry. I never imagined when I started, over there in The Philippines last year, that I'd be able to come up with enough rubbish to fill 500 entries! :-)