I have assumed there are people like me who have repressed unsavoury memories from their youth.
My memories were hazy to start with so it was easy to forget
them.
The year was 1986. The location, a dingy, first floor flat in Durham Street, St Lucia ,
within walking distance of the University
of Queensland
For many years, 27, in fact, I
had forgotten about the late nights, the munchies, empty pizza boxes piled
inside the front door, episodes of Prisoner
and D-Generation (never missed), jars
of cigarette butts decomposing in black water, wiry carpet dotted with durry burns,
leaking taps and many other things I don’t want to think about. And featuring in every snapshot of my life as
a 17 year old, first year uni student was a cask or two of fruity lexia.
Why fruity lexia? It was cheap and it tasted the least
disgusting of other cheap alcohol like Asti Spewmante and Passion Pop.
I have no memories of making it
to uni. However I was academically saved
by the good fortune of studying five full-year subjects with no semester
assessment.
Mum and Dad supported me in my
first year, urging me not to work, but to devote my spare time to studying hard
for my degree.
After less
than six months of this life, I’d achieved absolutely nothing except frequent
blackouts and the loss of too many brain cells.
And a loathing distaste of fruity lexia. So I cleaned up my act and
moved into college on campus for second semester. I started attending lectures and befriending
conscientious students so I could scab the first semester’s notes. And I forgot I’d ever lived at Durham Street .
So far, so
good until Good Friday.
Our son
started uni this year, far away from home.
“We’ll support
you, son,” we said before he left. “Don’t
find a job. Just make sure you
study.”
Good parents, Tony and I! We’ve also spent years grooming him about the
dangers of alcohol abuse as an adolescent.
Since Son is health conscious and works out, I’ve tailored my lectures
so he could understand that alcohol consumption as a teenager is
counter-productive to good health and fitness when the body is not fully grown
(yes, I know I was grasping at straws).
On Good Friday, Son
rang to tell me he was homesick for the first time since leaving. He wanted to know what was happening on TI
and I told him. I asked him what was
happening in his world. He said he woke
with a hang over.
“How did that happen?” I asked,
incredulous.
“Muuum,” he said, as if I was a moron
and regaled me with tales of drinking with fellow students and waking
mid-morning with head and bodyaches.
“How can
you afford to drink?” I tried to stem my growing rage. “Your father and I are working hard so you
can study and not have to find a job.”
“Mum, a
cask of fruity lexia is only nine dollars and you get four litres,” he said as
if he’d received a high distinction for a difficult subject.
“It’s
disgusting,” I said. “It’s got no food
value and you shouldn’t drink it if you care about your health.” Panic rose in my voice.
“We make it
taste nice by adding orange juice. That’s healthy. Or we buy bottles of lime and soda, you know,
it’s a soft drink. We sometimes add that
to the goon. There’s also V8 vegie juice
which is healthy. And Red Bull, but
that’s a bit expensive so we usually just use orange juice.”
My parents’ gloating words echoed
in my mind: “Granchildren are the grandparents’ revenge.”
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