I stood, examined the lollies, the teeth especially, and the pre-packed bags that were full of the crap no one wanted. Me and Jen, circa 1978. Mixed lollies, please? No, I like the raspberries. (Don’s growl): Full a raspberries. (Jen): I don’t like jubes.

‘Pretty warm, eh?’ I said.

Don didn’t turn. ‘Hot.’

I sat on the front step, eating. Don had returned to the paper, and the little bits of batter that had been frying all day. When I finished I returned to the lane, the pool ladder, and the yard. Got over, pulled the ladder back and headed in. Mum’d say, Where you been? I’d have to lie. Another Peter Parker moment.

‘Oi!’

I looked around.

‘Here!’

There was Curtis, peering through the gal, a sheet you could lift back, climb through, into another world. France, or Senegal, perhaps. People with a different language. Unfamiliar clothes on familiar lines. Same weeds, but other trees, and tomatoes that had been trained.

I climbed through into next door. ‘Whatcher doin’?’

But I could see the cigarette in his hand. Sterling 25s: good value. I always paid half. He took one out of the box, lit it off his and handed it to me. We sat behind a mound of dirt and settled in with our smokes. One of the great pleasures of life. The peppermints rattling in the bottom of the box, although I guessed Mum would smell it.

‘Where y’ been?’ he asked.

‘Don’s.’

He stubbed out one, and lit another. ‘I wouldn’t eat his food.’

‘Why?’

And he explained how Don stepped out the back of his shop, went into a little toilet, pissed, re-holstered and walked back in without so much as attempting to wash his hands.

‘So?’

‘And you eat his stuff?’

‘It’s deep fried. That’d kill anything.’

But Curtis wasn’t so sure. Wog piss was strong piss. Given, you wouldn’t taste it in the rancid oil, but those bugs (he insisted) can live in the vents of volcanoes, so I’m sure they can cope with Don-the-Greek’s chip fryer.

‘You been spying on him?’ I asked.

He gave me is surely-not look. ‘At least I don’t catalogue the whole street for ASIO … y’ dirty little perve.’

‘At least I don’t watch people takin’ a piss.’

‘He doesn’t shut the door. I was sittin’ here smokin’ and I heard the stream.’

‘The stream?’

‘Yes. Strong, golden, deep-fried. Going on for several minutes (that man must have an extraordinary bladder). As he fumbles his appendage, collecting billions of Escherichia. Oh, and havin’ a bit of a pick at the same time.’

‘You’re so full of shit.’

‘That too. The door ajar, but you can see. Flush. No attempt at a wash. Then in comes Clem Whelan. Minimum chips, mister. You, are, such, a sucker.’

‘You are full of shit.’

We continued smoking with due diligence.

Curtis said, ‘You can buy the next pack.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s getting suspicious. Asked how old I was.’