Opinion
Back in the 1960s, my father earned himself a nickname. Whenever there was work to be done, he had a tremendous talent for disappearing, hence he became known as 'Slippery' until his dying day and funeral, which he had the good grace to attend on time.
I remember many observers
showed up to see if they could indeed catch a glimpse of the man who was something of a Houdini on the mean streets of Glen Innes. There's no doubt he had a remarkable talent; when the work was there to be done, he wasn't.
I remember one Saturday , my mother delivering a strong requisition for Slippery to mow the lawns, then foolishly accepting his assurances that he would start immediately. An hour later, my mother went outside to offer her gratitude to her husband sweating behind the Masport.
Or was he? There was the mower on full power but tethered to the garden shed, there was the almost drained petrol can. It was obvious Slippery had headed for the public bar up the road.
The brow-beating he received for that dereliction of duty has stayed with me for a long time.
