The waitress saw us coming and wanted to know, "What is this, a joke?" but became quite conciliatory as she watched us creakily taking our seats. "What will it be? Coffee? Donuts? Defibrillators?" (I'm only joking; they don't sell donuts!)
With the niceties over, we settled in and talked and talked and then talked some more. Frank and Othmar had both come out in 1955 - by which I mean 'come out to Australia' and not all that 'pinched buttock prancing' down Oxford Street - while I, being the youngest of us three, hadn't joined them until late 1965, but our hopes and dreams and experiences had been similar. If only we had known those were the days, we wouldn't have been in such a hurry to put them behind us.
By the second cup of coffee, our talk had all but deteriorated to the level of The Four Yorkshiremen except in numbers, and we decided to leave some of it until the following week, same time, same place (I could also have written 'same place, same time' but it's taken sixty 'naturalised' years for 'same time, same place' to sound more 'natural').
While waiting for the blood circulation to return to our legs and before creakily getting off our seats, the friendly waitress helped us to take the above photo for posterity. Of course, I tipped her on the way out. "Thanks, Hun!" she smiled. Well, at least she got that one right!
P.S. Hello, Frank and Othmar, I think it should be all right to publish the above photograph unless you're fearing that someone out there is still chasing you for outstanding alimonies, in which case please let me know and I will immediately blur your image to match your failing eyesight.
