He was short and stocky and sexy. He had a killer smile and his dark almond eyes had eyelashes way longer than any boy should have. I liked him and he liked me.
As the circular crowd of angular, awkward teenagers missed the timing, we spotted Harriet and Mr Reynolds in the middle of the throng.
I was dressed in my rust-colored corduroy 3-piece suit, and she in a conservative, Catholic school girl skirt and blouse. She was tall and attractive, in a girl-next-door sort of way. Overall she appeared to be a suitable match for this first foray into my dating life.
I can’t stop gazing at the album cover. There’s Suzi in black and white, in the middle: tight jeans and leather jacket, hands on her hips, body facing sideways but her face turned front, eyes staring straight at the camera.
He tried his best to explain the finer parts of Spanish grammar, all of which I have forgotten. Such an unrewarding task. Even at 15 I could recognise this. But unlike other teachers he never raised his voice, or said threatening things, and he never gave any detentions. I could imagine him going home to his drab brown life, eating drab brown food and having to mark our very drab homework.
My sole ambition in life is to find out what has happened to John Fogerty.
Listen to Stephen Andrew as he recalls errant high-school days and a taciturn teacher.
The opening bars of Tucker’s Daughter will forever be associated with the interminable wait during school dancing lessons of holding the clammy hands of a socially inept male counterpart.
Stephen Andrew High school quadrangle, Melbourne. Lunchtime, 1975 On my fourteenth birthday my best mate, Peter, presented me with two gifts, one of which I still hold close to my heart.