From the book, Twelve Summers:
I was eight. The friend cupboard was bare and Dad was concerned about me crying all the time. I can’t remember if the crying was because I was upset over specific things, like Australia losing an ODI, or general things, like being alive. In any case, Mum and Dad took me to a child psychologist. I waited outside the psychologist’s office while myparents briefed her on my condition and I heard the psychologist say, ‘Have you any theories on what’s making Adam so upset?’ There was a brief silence, then Dad said, ‘He does eat a lot of honey.’
After five sessions with the psychologist, she recommended that some time away camping might improve my mood. Dad wasn’t that interested in the great outdoors, but, on doctor’s orders, he took me camping on the Atherton Tablelands. He asked a friendly Italian tobacco farmer if we could camp on his property by the river and the farmer said that’d be fine. So we made our way down a steep gully and set up our tent next to the river, which bordered an avocado farm. It was an idyllic afternoon. We started fishing and it didn’t take long before I had a fish on the hook, but halfway through reeling it in, the fish managed to wriggle itself free. So I said, ‘Cunty fish,’ thinking there was comedy in turning a swear noun into an adjective.
Dad didn’t see it like that. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY?’ he said, his face turning red.
I started to explain my comedic approach, but I could see he was in no mood for explanations. So I bolted. But Dad had some pace on him and was able to tackle me and bring me down. Then, just as I was about to receive a massive hiding, the friendly Italian tobacco farmer who’d let us camp on his property opened fire on the avocado farmer who lived on the other side of the river. And the avocado farmer fired right back at him. Bullets from 303s whistled over our heads. Dad understood a smattering of Italian and told me they were arguing about the boundary of their properties and to keep my head down. He then got up, took off his shirt, waved it at the gunmen, and yelled, ‘I HAVE AN EIGHT-YEAR-OLD DOWN HERE!’
They stopped. We packed the tent away and went home. Fortunately for me, the shootout became the story we told Mum, and not the cunty fish.
An extract from Twelve Summers, available here
choice story that one.
😂🤣