I could hear our mower: Pop, out back, tackling the quarter acre of grass my dad had planted in the days of fresh fibro and Peter without his Catweazle beard. I knew I should get dressed, go help, but the smell was holding me down. The mower, reshaping garden, house and street, God’s voice promising a Paradise of all things orange, brown and Nana Mouskouri.

Morning glory! But I rose, sat on the end of my bed and gazed out at the wire fence. Gary Burrell, of course. In exchange for a few slabs. Fences were important. They extended pride, but defined privacy. Still, nothing could keep the strays out, and you had to check for dog shit before you ran under sprinklers. The Donnellans were front-fenceless, but that wasn’t a yard anyone would want to enter. You could tell people by their fence. Les had built a wooden number, but it had rotted away, and leaned, casting Dr Caligari shadows on long summer nights lit by a cheesecake moon.

And between fence and lawn, a path that Jen had once wheeled me around as I sat in the hot-steel barrow, burning my legs. Hurry up, I’d say, thinking she was doing it for my benefit. But no. The barrow would tip, I’d go tumbling and she’d cover me with the aluminium dome, sitting on it, laughing, as the temperature rose, and I shouted and kicked, wet with sweat, until Mum came out and pushed her off.

A shirtless Les Champness came out, entered his aviary and sprinkled seed. He extended a finger and waited for a bird to settle before kissing it. More than Wendy ever got, I guessed. I thought of Nick Andrews, found a pad and started drawing the birdman. The stumpy legs, fat arse and belly that made him lean forward. Dozens of birds at his feet, pecking between his toes, as he talked to them. Man boobs, of course, bloodhound eyes and a bit of hair you had to get close to see. I stopped, examined him, and felt pleased. So on the second page, I continued. Wendy as Eve. This time from imagination: hair rollers and a net to keep them in place; black dress with apron, and a bowl to gather nectarines; slippers; and a plain expression that came from plain features.

I examined my work and saw gaps in my Creation. Ron Glasson had come out to measure someone’s seat, so I drew him, arse view, but you could make out his Olive Oyl legs and long, scarecrow arms.

And this is where I sat, sketching, waiting for victims, focusing on faces and slumped shoulders and June Sharpe with her unmistakable cleavage. As the mower droned, and I felt bad that I wasn’t helping.