Further to Tom's fond memories of bodies in baths at Lisson Grove, there was one such washing when all of us decided to get in. The bath there was a huge enamelled vessel, which sat on clawed legs, I seem to recall. It certainly had a large curly lip. We soaped that lip up well one night and took it in turns to slide over the slippery edge and into the waiting water. Splash!! Every time a body hurtled in, there was a tsunami of soapy water that hurled over the edge (and had to be replaced). What fun! Water sloshed everywhere, soaking into the towels and clothes strewn over the floor, and out under the door into the adjacent dining room. Squeals and giggles alerted the ever-patient Mumbo who looked unusually cross when she saw what was happening. Off came her rubber thong which started connecting with bare, wet bums with a fury. This, of course, did not prompt the required response (tears and abject apologies) but rather giggles and guffaws. Like a chemical reaction, such insubordination in turn provoked more fury and more thong paddles. I can still remember seeing Sam's little bum cheeks, bright red with too much paddling, dancing around the bathroom. I think the whole episode reduced poor Mum to tears. But what fun we had!

Sam was always a sunny little chap. Knobbly knees knocked a bit and toes turned just a tad inwards. Bright, happy little face that was always eager to please and sure of the knowledge that the world was a happy place and people were good. It was my responsibility to walk him to his first day at school (Eagle Junction Primary). Being a special occasion and all, he wore a round brimmed hat (that then squashed down lots of hair, I seem vaguely to recall). Big blue eyes, and a slightly vacant 'what's going on now, folks?' look completed the package. I took him into his new class. I remember looking back and seeing him standing like a lost soul towards the front, waiting to be received by his teacher. I expected him to be bawling when I left. But no. He was contemplating his new universe with one finger securely wedged up a nostril, disdainfully avoiding use of the hanky pinned to his shirt. When there are bogies to catch, there is no point in stressing about meaningless details such as school.

Shout Every week, the Assembly of God church in Rockhamption would hold an open air meeting in the main part of town, as a witness to the Christian gospel. Mostly, only Dad attended from our family, but occasionally my friend Essie and I would go along to swell the ranks. Now, one of the more visible (in many ways) members of the congregation was a lady named Mrs. Crone. Her abundant curves were in proportion to her loud voice, laugh and rather fervent but off-beat view of life. One got the impression that she had hoped for better things in life, than living out at the back of Burke (which she did), with a skinny nondescript husband. She was a ‘big’ personality. So there we all were with my Dad on point duty. We were standing around in a tight little semi-circle, singing choruses and giving testimonies like we normally did at these gatherings. Then I spotted him. Down the adjacent footpath I saw this drunken chap slowly stumbling and staggering towards us. His impending arrival didn’t seem to raise the alarm bells that I felt it should have. I noticed that Dad had spotted him, but he maintained his concentration and continued that required solemn form. Finally the drunk lurched to a stop right in front of our merry little band and grasped at the lamp post least he fall. “Haaaaallelujah”. “Aaaaaamen”. Mags dear – “just keep you head down and concentrate on your hymn book” I said to myself. Don’t look at him and don’t encourage him – he will go away soon enough. But he didn’t. Then he spotted Mrs. Crone. His eyes lit up and this crooked smile split his face. Leering at her intently, he dragged one hand up to his face, crooked his finger and beckoned her to join him with those little summoning gestures. Mrs. Crone just praised the Lord even more loudly. Essie and I giggled. I looked at Dad up front. He was still trying very hard to look serious and unperturbed. Having not achieved the desired response, the drunk just stared at Mrs. Crone awhile. I gave a head-down sideways look at her and noticed that she seemed oblivious to the fact that this drunk actually fancied her. Having let go of the security of the lamp post and now freely swaying from side to side, the drunk tried again. He beckoned to Mrs. Crone once more. Then with no response, he recoiled his finger and placed it on the tip of his very large bulbous nose, before proceeding to squash it all over his face. It was too much - Mrs. Crone let out a snort that reverberated right round the block. It certainly drowned out any of the exalting Hallelujahs being expressed by our group. I just had to sneak a look at our front-man Dad - poor old fellow. With shoulders shaking, he had fittingly taken refuge in his large hanky.

It was at Wooloowin that I first remember Annie going a touch purple and losing her English cool. Bath time. I think there were four of us: David, Helen, Sam and I. Tom and Pip were probably hovering in awe in the hallway.
The old bath tub had a beautifully honed edge that lent itself to being generously soaped. We found out, probably by trial and error, that the slippery edge provided a wonderful launch pad to surge into the bathwater. Splash! Wet body after wet body swirled through the water, which got soapier and dirtier with each new dive. Of course, Archimedes's principle was proven over and over again - with the displacement being accommodated as required.
What fun!! Nobody noticed that all the towels and discarded cloths lying over the bathroom floor were getting soggier and soggier, or that trickles of water were starting to flow out the bathroom door and into the adjoining dining room. I remember Sam having the time of his life. 'Wangle Dangle' we used to call him. Anyway back to the story . . .
Then Annie was at the door. Her face told a story. 'Give me strength' (She said that a lot once. I used to wonder who she was talking to). Her reprimands were of little consequence to the cavorting nudies, however, who continued skipping and giggling through the sodden mess. So, as had often proved to be the only recourse, off came the trusty rubber thong. Ker-thwack! One bare bottom swiped. Wangle's I think. One would think that would be sufficient to cower the dripping mass into submission. No. Giggle, giggle. KERR-THWACK!! KERR-THWACK!! Annie's doing a banshee, frantically aiming for slippery bottoms that were trying their hardest to elude the flying rubber reprimand. By this time, I remember Sam's butt sporting two pink thong tracks. It sort of suited him. But did it deter him? No, he just giggled and skipped around some more, accompanied by the suppressed snorts of his siblings. In fact, the harder Annie whacked and the more purple became her face, the more fun it all seemed. (There's a price to be paid for all that callous regard, I can feel it coming . . )
Bath time at Wooloowin is an image that has stayed with me for some 40 years now. At the time, I could not understand why Annie couldn't see the funny side, or perhaps even want to join in. In my dotage, I realize that that memorable evening was just the beginnings of Annie's blood pressure. But what a way to go . . .