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Robert looks around guiltily, endeavouring to disguise his smug sense of pleasure, as though he were about to be sprung for a crime against humanity. He continues along the footpath with that jaunty air of a man satisfied with his lot. His brolly swings enthusiastically beside his side, whilst his brief-case speaks volumes about the substance of its owner. Robert nears his house, after a demanding day at the office.
The journey for Robert, although short, has been steep. He has not always resided here, among the leafy terraced laneways of Paddington. His earliest memories centre upon a ramshackle barn of a building rented by his parents on the sheep property at Wybong, where his father was a share-farmer. For Robert it was an early start, with the school bus picking him up from the distant front gate just before 6:30.
For Robert, regression was not to be countenanced. Ever.
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