Living Upside Down. John Hickman

is climbing a chair.

      “Clever, Girl. Did you know it snowed while the sun was still in bed?” Roger says excitedly.

      Jayne is three, going on seven, noticing everything and missing almost nothing of significance. Her curly hair shines the colour of sun-dappled straw.

      James begins to jabber and point. An awkward, gummy smile playing about perfect lips he could not yet control.

      “He’s big for his age,” Sue remarks, “with the prospect of him becoming a tall boy, just look at his long feet.”

      Jayne is staring at James as if he has just hatched from an egg.

      “Better let Fred in, Roger.”

      Roger opens the back door but there is no sign of Fred. To avoid losing heat he steps outside where a gust of freezing wind whips up a cloud of dirty snow that sends an involuntary shiver up Roger’s already frigid backside. The bite of the cold wind snatches at his ears and turns them in to rocket fins.

      Fred is now bouncing around as if on a pogo stick.

      “Weak bastard Hound. Conjure up one last tinkle, or do a crap, and you can come inside!”

      Fred casts that well-known hang-dog look while Roger wedges his bare hands under his armpits for warmth.

      “Won’t save you. Just because you’re a dog, doesn’t mean you always get a bone.”

      Back inside Fred wisely keeps a paw’s distance from what Jayne might have in mind for him, yet now wants to play with the big people.

      Sue, wearing multiple layers of clothes and thick wool socks enveloping her feet inside her slippers is stating the case of the bleeding obvious.

      Roger has not yet noticed that Sue is wearing more layers than an onion.

      At twenty-five years of age, Roger’s idea of culture is a half pint of lager and a Z Cars marathon or Callan, but it’s too early for any of that. Instead, he stokes the fire in their lounge room before settling beside it and turning on their colour television set. While the set takes a few minutes to warm up, he reaches for a cigarette and lights up his first of the day.

      Inhaling deeply he realises, too late, that not only will Sue be annoyed with his smoke but she will likely have another reason to avoid any polarising kisses.

      The television emits its robotic noises, bleeping and zooming with piercing jingles, as the crash and tumble of advertisements commence.

      Calling out to Sue in the west wing that is their kitchen, Roger carps, “That bloody Australian Government’s on the TV again. The amount they’re spending on this crap is not only excessive, it amounts to the equivalent of granting the entire population of the Democratic Republic of the Congo each fully paid Oxford university scholarships.”

      Arriving with two welcoming cups of steaming hot tea Sue makes a face at his disgusting cigarette smoke.

      Might two strikes out of two be not bad for his first try?

      “Love your little bit of cigarette at the same time as my tea! If you must smoke, why don’t you do it outside?”

      “Outside! Be fair, have you looked? We’ve had snow.”

      With an involuntary little shiver, Sue kicks off her slippers and shuffles her covered feet closer to the fire.

      “Bit over the top this Australian advertising,” Roger announces, while sipping his hot tea.

      “What do you mean?” Sue asks whilst talking to her cup of tea.

      He jounces at the television. “The amount they’re spending on this crap would bankrupt most nations. You know governments waste money. You’re always saying it’s because they’ve no vested interest in their expenditure.”

      “True!”

      “Might few in government have moral compasses? Day after day we’re being stuffed like geese with sun drenched beaches and bikini clad women.”

      Nodding, Sue holds her cup in both hands, her nose just above the rising warmth.

      “The catch,” Roger continues, “is you have to migrate. Go live Down Under in a penal colony.”

      Sue glances sideways from the rim of her cup. Twenty-seven years old with curves in all the right places, she wears her auburn hair up; as when down, it is long enough to sit on.

      As an ex-hair stylist, professional hair is like a religion to Sue. Top and bottom of the spectrum, hair and shoes.

      Giving her husband an impatient look, her alert green eyes pack a wallop.

      “They’re trying to attract liberal minded people like us, from the heart of the British Empire.”

      “It’s not so long ago the Crown sent them for free.”

      Sue becomes a tad terse. “Well, now they want £10 each.”

      She is looking down for a moment so that Roger will not see the resentment reflected in her features. Sue is in an age when male chauvinism is expected and a certain amount of it is popular at this time. She likes him to lead but not totally dominate. It’s a fine line that sometimes Roger has difficulty with.

      With his voice now approaching an audible level only to canines, “A whole ten quid! Ten to fifteen years more likely with a chain around their ankle. That’s more appropriate.”

      Looking back up Sue forces a smile, replying in a comical way. “You think?”

      Purebred canine Fred is impressed but unsure why. Jayne and James do not care.

      “Today politicians spout on about getting tough on crime but as everybody knows that’s bullshit, as they genuflect to the left for votes. Not like in the good old days.”

      Roger’s oration is interrupted by a colourful bevy of bikini-clad girls appearing on their TV, kidding about on a near perfect sandy white beach. A wash of colour makes the line between the sky and sea indistinct.

      “Admittedly, it’s easy to watch,” he concedes.

      Sue purrs as bronzed iron men from the surf join the girls. “They say it’s easy enough to apply.”

      “Yes, I know. Moreover, if you qualify they’ll sponsor you, which means employment is guaranteed. They haven’t shut up about it. All anyone has to do is pack up their shit and move to the arse end of nowhere!”

      Sue’s emerald eyes bore in to Roger. “They say Australia is a huge continent that’s only sparsely populated.”

      Roger’s gut tightens and the feeling of cement shoes forms around his feet.

      “I’m unimpressed. And anyway, much as some of the scenery appeals, don’t I have a good enough job here?”

      “Yes, you do.”

      Jayne! Don’t let Fred lick your face, Sweetheart, you don’t know where a dog’s tongue’s been.”

      “£1,200 per annum, Sue, plus commission on sales; can’t sneeze at that.”

      Sue counters, “When they don’t renege.”

      “They have been known to move the goalposts mid game but don’t forget there’s a company car.”

      “Luxuries are beyond our reach, admittedly a gap made wider since the failure of your father’s hotel businesses.”

      Sue did not marry Roger for his money. Sometimes he wonders why indeed she married him at all.

      Their agreement was to have children and at twenty-one years of age that was alright with him. A view currently shared by her, but she is finding him increasingly difficult to please.

      “There’s not too many around here on that sort of moolah in their mid twenties. We can’t live on the square root of nothing. I’ve got two children under four to support, no degree