The day my massive sister actually took coolness to a brand new stage was when she finger-knitted a complete curtain for the door of her room and purchased the only of Rick Springfield’s Speak to the Sky on vinyl from the Glen Waverley file store.
Until then, Greg Brady was the one particular person I knew who pimped up his room to such impact. Now my very own sister was rivalling a teen TV god, creating an intriguing entranceway through craft then letting the remainder of us in to bop to Rick – and Ross Ryan doing I Am Pegasus – on her file participant.
Funny factor was, she simply stored out-doing herself. She was the primary lady in grade seven to get a brief feather minimize, the primary on the street to get a velour high (worn with Staggers denims and both Saba wedge sandals or two-tone blue treads) and knew the phrases to Ego Is Not A Dirty Word about 10 minutes after it was on Countdown.
Krysanne Halfpenny was the favored lady however by no means the imply one. She was nearly bizarrely pleasant to everybody however had a steely facet. When we moved to Tassie, she was as soon as locked within the eating room of the college boarding home for six hours for refusing to eat limp greens. She sat serenely in place till my dad acquired phrase and referred to as the headmistress: “Let her out.”
She taught me easy methods to do the sharpie dance, make Shaker Maker collectible figurines, smoke, embellish my college books with photos minimize out of surf magazines. I’d barge into her room and he or she’d display easy methods to placed on her favorite Boo Blue eyeshadow. She lent me her Dolly mags as a result of she knew I used to be into the part the place the style editor suggested what to pack for a Fairstar cruise.
Krys beloved everybody and all the things. But principally blokes. Bon Scott, the Bay City Rollers, Dennis Lillee, Simon Madden, Meat Loaf. They beloved her again. Any who got here inside her orbit had been mad for her sparky allure, her jangly silver and puka shell necklaces, her bizarre innocence. “True?” she’d ask always while you dished gossip or tales from Willesee at Seven. “Wow.”
The one who fell for her when she began as a teller on the Launceston Westpac department proposed over Friday night time work drinks on the pub. Soon we had been mendacity on her mattress marvelling at magazines with sweetheart neckline clothes and Niagara Falls honeymoon suites with coronary heart formed beds.
Then, after I was 15 and he or she was 19, she was gone. Married, moved to Queensland, now referred to as Louise Lowe. She’d ring mum to examine a recipe from the Women’s Weekly rooster cookbook and we’d discuss rapidly – STD telephone charges – but it surely was by no means the identical. I bear in mind listening to Kasey Kasem’s Top 40 one Sunday afternoon and feeling Air Supply had been speaking on to me: “I’m lying alone with my head on the phone, thinking of you ’til it hurts.”