To say my father was good man would be a lie. I remember him in a series of flashbacks, moments of violent domestic mayhem and toothy smiles, followed by a gentle pat on the head. When he died of massive brain injuries I was relieved.

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I’m sitting in Father’s Office in Melbourne drinking a vodka, lime and soda waiting for a friend to arrive. She is seeing My Fair Lady at the Regent and is running late. While I wait my mind starts to wander, I sip my vodka, look at the view of the State Libray of Victoria and ponder the fate of the great Australian musical…