Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Manners Maketh the Man

Picture this: a country town in 1973, a wedding reception, a radiant bride, a not so radiant groom and a roomful of people. They raise their glasses to toast the happy couple. What are they drinking? Non-alcoholic grape juice. This is a dry wedding. Sitting next to the disconsolate looking groom (me), is my first wife Julia.

Did the non-serving of alcohol presage a disastrous marriage? Well it was a signal for my so called friends to find a variety of pathetic excuses not to attend. Shallow? Certainly, but looking back they made the right call. They warned me it would end in tears and it did, mostly mine.

That is no reflection on Julia. She was a lovely, sweet tempered country girl who wanted nothing more than to find a suitable husband, live in a nice house and have several children. She married a penniless long haired drop out, whose current employment was emptying rubbish bins for the local council and had been arrested twice for protesting at demonstrations. Once against the Vietnam War and the second time against the Springbok tour.

Not a match made in Heaven you may think but there was love. Unfortunately the marriage was subjected to a force against which there was no defence-Julia’s mother.

My mother-in-law was an old school Presbyterian who voted country party. She considered Gough Whitlam to be the Anti-Christ incarnate and was so far to the right she would have made Pauline Hanson look like Mother Theresa. So when her daughter introduced me the reception was icy to say the least.

Her husband had died some years earlier. By all accounts the old man hadn’t been too bad. He had served honourably and valiantly in the Second World War and worked hard on the family farm afterwards. He dropped dead with a heart attack while out repairing a fence. However, it was his misfortune and eventually mine for him to have married one of the most mean spirited, penny pinching, narrow minded, ultra critical harridans who has ever drawn breath. I know mother-in-law jokes are passé but she fitted the stereotype for every one.

What Julia saw in me I can’t say although I wasn’t that bad looking and possessed a quantity of charm. I think she was very lonely when we met. She had come down from the country to work as a hairdresser and knew no one. We met at a party thrown by one of her workmates and somehow my antics amused her. We started sleeping together and by the time she’d discovered the pill she was pregnant. I, of course, badgered her into having sex, took no precautions and would have left for North Queensland when I received the news, if there hadn’t been a skerrick of decency loitering within me. I did the proper thing and proposed.

We travelled to Julia’s hometown to break the news of our intended marriage. It was the middle of winter and the house was tropical. Julia’s mother, I shall call her Mavis, suffered from the cold and she kept a log fire and a gas heater burning night and day.

When she retired at night she wore fleecy pyjamas, bed socks, cuddled a hot water bottle and had the electric blanket on the highest setting. She would not entertain the idea of Julia and me sharing a bed under her roof until we were married.

When we had told her of our intentions she had fixed us both with her gimlet eyes. "We had better get things moving, you don’t want to show at the wedding." Despite her considerable misgivings about me she obviously felt it was the lesser of two evils for her daughter to be married than have a child out of wedlock, even if the father was a complete undesirable.

Mavis gave Julia her mother’s engagement ring to wear so that when we socialised we were officially betrothed. When I say ‘socialise’ I mean going to the bowling club, the church and various church functions. When I informed Mavis that I was an atheist she told me never to utter that word again, especially in company. For the benefit of her religious circle I was to be a god-fearing Protestant.

One thing I soon discovered that Julia never let slip was that her mother was very well off. She had inherited her parents’ wealth. Her father had owned a string of shops in towns throughout the area. Before her mother had died they had all been sold off. Mavis, of course inherited the lot. When her husband died the family farm had been sold off. She was sitting on a tidy sum. I was going to marry an heiress.

However, any illusions that I was going to become lord of the manor were quickly shattered when I accidently heard Mavis revealing what she really thought of me to her best friend Betty Marks.

I came in through the garage, taking my shoes off as instructed, so they didn’t hear me come in. The conversation as I remember it went something like this, "if that long haired, godless communist thinks he’s going to get his hands on a penny of the money our family has worked hard for all these years, he’s got another think coming. The money will go to Julia and any children and I’ll make sure it’s all tied up legally." That’s quite accurate but I can’t convey the vitriolic manner in which she conveyed it.

The marriage. Well as I said what a disastrous day. I managed to persuade one of my friends to be best man. That was a colossal mistake. Pete never claimed to the most reliable of people and he certainly lived down to expectations. He kept disappearing and I realised later he was smoking joints outside. He tried propositioning the two bridesmaids, both of whom were happily married to big strapping farm boys, and when he launched into his speech started off with the most disgusting joke anyone in that room had ever heard. As he continued irate murmuring grew. I stopped him mid sentence before he could cause further outrage, stumbled through a speech myself to stony silence until I invited people to toast the bride. The last I saw of Pete he was being held by the throat by one of the bridesmaid’s husbands in the men’s toilet.

Country life was very insular then but I did try and fit in when we visited her mother. Once, I was persuaded to accompany Julia’s cousin, Ralph, to a football game he was playing in. It was a dirty day and there were only a handful of spectators. I was persuaded to be a goal umpire. Now I have to admit I grew up in a state that did not play Australian rules and I personally disdained team games so my knowledge of the sport was non-existent.

Ralph explained to me the simplicity of the role. "See those four posts? If the ball goes through the two big ones, it’s a goal, if it goes either side it’s a point. A goal means you raise two fingers, a point, one finger, gottit?" Of course I ‘gottit’, I wasn’t a child.

The game started and most of the action was at the other end. I was standing in front of the opposition supporters who made up for their lack of numbers with some pithy comments, especially about the length of my hair and subsequent sexuality. Then play moved closer, an opposition player kicked the ball goalward and it sailed over my head. I was transfixed. The umpire called all clear and Ralph yelled out, "Two fingers Roy." So I complied. I raised two fingers on one hand in what used to be called a peace sign. The umpire and the players convulsed with laughter but the supporters behind me roared with outrage. They could only see me raising one hand and they thought I was awarding a point for an obvious goal.

Everyone calmed down after the umpire explained he wanted me to signal with both arms raised with one finger held upright. Why didn’t Ralph explain that to me? Anyway the game continued and as the home team dominated I wasn’t asked to make any more controversial decisions.

Afterwards in the sheds with the beer flowing everyone had a huge laugh at my expense. No one had ever seen anything like it. I have to admit it ended up a good night but I indulged too freely. I staggered back at some ungodly hour to be greeted with a dark house and what is idiomatically called ‘hot tongue and cold shoulder’ from Julia. Mavis maintained a silent outrage that did her credit.

Unfortunately, Julia lost the baby and that didn’t help with my relationship with Mavis. When we arrived for Christmas she took every opportunity to criticise me. One of her neighbours called in to lend her a baking dish. I was sitting down reading the newspaper when she arrived. Mavis introduced us and I said a polite hello. However, I noticed the aggrieved look on Mavis’ face. After the neighbour left I asked her what I had done wrong.

"Well, I don’t know about in the city, but when a lady is introduced to a man in the country he stands up."

I accepted the rebuke gracefully and added it to my list of etiquette requirements, such as never addressing anyone over fifty by their first name or, heaven forbid, touch a man on any part of his body except if you’re shaking hands.

Christmas Day was hot as Hades. We had the obligatory roast dinner with all the trimmings. No alcohol was served of course. The temperature in that house was comparable to Singapore at noon. Mavis wouldn’t even allow a fan to blow. The air was as stifling as the atmosphere between us. Late in the afternoon I offered to return the baking dish to the neighbour, just to get out of the house. Outside was blistering. Of course nothing was open, certainly not a hotel. It was like walking through a ghost town.

I arrived at the neighbour’s house and knocked. Mrs Sutcliffe opened the door. She was wearing what looked like an evening dress, complete with a set of pearls. She accepted the dish and then uttered the words I had dreamt of, "Would you like to come in for a Christmas drink?"

Inside the house I was introduced to Mr Sutcliffe, who despite the heat was wearing a collar and tie and a tweed sports coat with leather arm patches. Two other ancients were present, distant relatives apparently, who were similarly dressed. The house was dark and overflowed with furniture and assorted knick-knacks. An upright rickety fan tried desperately to circulate some cool air.

As I sat I started to salivate at the thought of the ice cold beer that would be served up. I imagined Mrs Sutcliffe removing the bottle from the ‘fridge, beads of moisture forming on the outside as she poured it into a long glass. My revelry was interrupted as she came into the room. She smiled as she presented me with a glass of sherry.

I accepted with a polite smile that dissipated when I sipped the sherry. It tasted of vinegar and mouldy cheese and smelt like old cardboard. I began to sweat even more profusely. But as the alcohol began its mysterious journey to the neurons in my brain, slowly releasing dopamine into its reward centre, I began to unwind and relax.

That is until Mr Sutcliffe announced that the Queen’s speech would soon be on the wireless. Yes, wireless, not a radio, but a genuine Bakelite Astor valve wireless, circa 1940’s. He switched it on and after a plummy voiced announcement, the musical introduction to ‘God Save the Queen’ began.

All those present, except me, immediately stood up rigidly at attention. I now had a crisis of conscience. Should I remain seated and mute in accordance with my republican and socialistic principles and suffer the subsequent opprobrium from Mavis after she was inevitably informed or should I stand? I stood.

The British national anthem doesn’t last that long but it seemed to go on for ever that day. When it finished we all sat in awed silence as our monarch, with a voice like cut glass intoned her Christmas message. We all agreed it was a fine speech and for my participation I was awarded a second sherry, which although tasting just as disgusting had its desired effect.

I said my farewells and made my way back, confident that Mrs Sutcliffe would deliver a wholesome appraisal of my behaviour. Alas, it did nothing to increase my standing in Mavis’ eyes; in fact she never even mentioned it.

Sad to say my marriage with Julia fell apart. We divorced amicably and she returned to her home town and opened her own business. She married a local solicitor and, with the aid of medical science produced two healthy boys. I lost contact then and have no knowledge of how long Mavis continued to exert her influence.

Over the years I have enjoyed many rollicking Christmas celebrations. The memory of me standing rigidly to attention singing ‘God Save the Queen,’ while sweat oozed from every pore of my body only causes me to smile now. Oh, and I have never allowed a drop of sherry to pass my lips since.