Page 56 - Exile-ebook
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56                      AN EXILE OF THE MIND                                                                   STANDING IN FOR THE BEATLES                       57


































          Two beautiful women at the Ball, Doris Lawrence and her daughter, Jane.                      Jane and me in the days when wearing a suit in a paddock was normal.


          asked me to walk with her to escape  worldly-wise,  mother to  Jane  and                    finery  at  elegant  balls.  Jane,  with  as we spun around the room in a
          the amorous advances of a local lad  a huge inspiration to me. Jane was                     her blonde long figure, looked rav-  flapdoodle of nuttiness.
          trotting forlornly behind. She had  the  exuberant blonde  bombshell                        ishing  in a pale  gown  as our feet    On a bright new day growing warm
          a delightful  personality  unlike any  who made such an  impression on                      whispered one-two-three across the  and sunny, Jane and I set off to tour
          girl I had ever met. I was entranced.  that memorable Friday night.                         polished floors.                     the country on a Puch scooter Aus-
            Toasted  sandwiches  and  coffee       The three of us would  go for a                       On one occasion we were  trian made. Midge had been stopped
          were served in the creative nerve cen-  drive in Midge along narrow coun-                   honoured with the courtly presence  in her tracks a few months earlier by
          tre of town with its strong thespian  try  roads, under  a cloudscape  of                   of  Count von Roxberg, snootily  a power pole and was too buckled to
          presence,  talented  and  energetic.  A  cumulus and into the green-purple                  attired in white tie and tails. This  make any journey unless we drove
          regular customer, Harry Borley, was  hills. A cool breeze wafted down its                   sartorial splendour padded out  around in  circles. The scooter had
          the librarian’s nightmare. He would  sweet smell of silage as we gathered                   with a cushion beneath a blood  a tendency to topple over on loose
          take out stacks of books and drop  pine cones by the sackful for the fire                   red sash which bore the Insignia of  metal roads, with Jane underneath it
          them into the letterboxes of people  to toast our chilled  feet  in wintery                 Magnificis  Twit.  Overlarge  trousers  waiting patiently for rescue.
          he thought might read them.          evenings.                                              threatened to surrender to gravity as   We scootered for several weeks
            The coffee bar was run by the vi-     We  stomped  the  floorboards  at                   the cushion worked its way loose. My  around the North Island with a pup
          brant free-spirited Doris Lawrence,  local dances and waltzed in all our                    false whiskers drooped and flapped  tent to shelter us from the elements.
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