Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Ana s Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Out to Pasture

There comes a time in every volunteer fire fighter's life when the captain says, "Let's have a beer," and you know that's not shorthand for, 'Bloody tough day,' but for something more life changing.

My "Roy! Let's have a beer," is accompanied by Jim slapping me on the back, thrusting a long neck lager into my hand, and guiding me to a seat near the BBQ as my mates head to the showers. Nadger gives me a sympathetic smile. Dan looks away. Jim's given the crew the heads up.

"You want to talk about my PSA levels," I say with a nervous smile. Ever since the talk from Prostate Australia it's become a standing joke for us older blokes.

"What? Nah," he says. "I just wanted to say we had a bloody good day on the hoses, mate."

"Yeah," I grunt, trying to stop my gut's butterfly pupae emerging into adult form. This isn't a PSA talk - it's worse.

"Did I see yer struggle a bit getting the chainsaw back in the locker? Yer looked a bit awkward."

"No, no," I quicky reply. "Absolutely fine. Just a bit stiff - slept badly. Wife's got hot flush things still."

"Come on, Roy! Yer not getting any younger. Don't blame Elaine."

I incline my head, just a little, in acknowledgement.

"I'm sure I saw you wince... more than once," he says firmly.

If this were a cop show, I'd say 'No comment,' but Jim's a mate. I just don't want to acknowledge the truth. If I give him an inch, he'll take a whole bloody mile and might even start talking about PSA levels and then where will I be? In no time I'll be wandering around 'Sunset Acres', with a mug of cold tea in hand and a walking stick, looking for the Bingo Hall which mysteriously moves during the night? So instead, I try another approach - diversion.

"BOM reckons the wind will stiffen late tomorrow so we do need to hit the fire grounds early. I'm happy to take sparrow fart."

"S'right, Roy. Bandicoot's taking the early shift with Nadger and Guy."

It's now clear that this has been discussed with the crew earlier and I'm on my own. Perhaps if I concede a little, I'll not be put out to pasture quite yet. After all, there is nothing to make you feel more alive than a sheet of flame roaring up the hill towards you and your only protection is a hose, your overalls and your mates.

Jim looks around and certain that the rest of the crew are consuming large quantities of hot water in the showers, washing grit out of their eyes, ash out of their hair and banishing the stink of smoke through liberal applications of 'body gel', he turns his gaze to me and speaks quietly. "I'm not putting you out to pasture, Roy. I want yer here. I need yer here. But not on hoses. Yer know how much speed and dexterity is needed. Old Father Time's caught up with yer. But," and he raises his hand, stopping me as I open my mouth, "not on hoses, not on comms, not even on catering, though I know you are a gun snag sambo maker. I want yer to drive The Beast."

My mouth goldfishes, as my brain stutters into gear.

"The B... Beast?"

"Yeah. Curley's given notice."

"Curley's given notice," I repeat.

Jim grins. "If yer keep repeating everythin' I say I'll reckon yer losin' yer marbles as well as being 'a bit stiff' - oh, an 'ow's yer PSA levels?"

I punch him on the arm. "You bastard!"

"No, I'm serious. Curley's missus has come down with somethin' that 'e says she don't want to talk about and 'e can't be on call any longer, so 'e's given me three month's notice - Daz will cover for 'im, but we need two drivers on call and I reckon you're the one."

I'd always wanted to drive a tanker and after Black Summer we had been re-equipped with an absolute state-of-the-art one. It was a Czech monster - a Tatra 4x4 Crew Cab. Six crew. Heat shields. Burn over blankets. Water Halo. 4000 litre tank. 6 speed automatic transmission. 1100 litres per minute pump. If heaven had heavy duty firefighting water tankers, and it probably does - gotta keep the fires of hell in abeyance - then this one would be driven by Saint Peter himself, and he'd let nobody else near it. Certainly, that was how Curley treated our Tatra - known to all of us as 'The Beast', which, if I think about, would not be a name that Saint Peter would have chosen.

"You know that I only have Light Rigid Truck Licence," I say slowly.

"Yeah, yeah. But yer can upgrade it. We'll pay for training. Yer can get it in three months - easy." Jim gives me a reassuring smile. He's the youngest captain the brigade's ever had and while he doesn't have the life experience that we older fella's have, he's a fine leader of people.

I nod. "Count me in!"

"And no more hoses."

I flick him the bird, get up, stretch, my back cracking as I do so (confirming his view that I'm a heartbeat away from the grave), give him a wry smile and head to the showers. I hope there's still some hot water.

My fire crew, who come from all walks of life, mostly relating to ewes, to fencing, utes and chain-saws took quite some time to get used to me. I'm a corporate lawyer, a well-paid, no, very well-paid, corporate lawyer, one who drives a Porsche Taycan. To join the local brigade I found it necessary to purchase a fourteen-year-old diesel Hilux. In addition, I had to change not only my way of speaking, which involved dropping my 'i-n-g's', but also my clothing. RM Williams is too country squire and so it was out with that and in with faded jeans (any brand) and scuffed boots. The jeans came from Vinnies, the boots were my Dad's that I found in the back of my shed from when we cleaned out his house twenty years ago. With this uniform the fire crew were comfortable and thus I'm certain that my clothing is suitable attire for J&J Heavy Vehicle Driver Training School at Berriga. But I'm wrong.

Walking into the big shed I'm confronted by a woman, well, I think it's a woman. More like a wide-bodied aircraft, and covered in tattoos - with more smudged blue than skin. As for her clothing, she makes my scuffed boots, worn jeans and checked shirt, look like I'm Fred Astaire. This woman - with enormous breasts (a good indicator of her sex) stuffed awkwardly into a stained blue singlet - wears boots with half a heel and air-conditioned jeans that are soaked in something that can only be diesel. Her nose piercing looks worryingly like a discarded tyre valve. But despite these sartorial oddities she gives me a friendly, toothy leer in greeting.

"Jaz's the name," she says through broken teeth, thrusting out a hand larger than a soup plate.

"First J in 'J&J'." I take her paw and after a solid shake, she kindly returns my hand to me, aching and greasy from her oily grip. "Youse Roy, the bloke who wants a medium rigid?"

"Yeah."

She looks me up and down, contemplating my grey and less than luxurious hair. "Sheet," she says. "Bugger me but youse don't look as though you could get up a medium rigid at your age. Maybe a light rigid." She breaks into a gravelly laugh.

They say sexual harassment is rife in the legal profession. Clearly Jaz is trying to even things up in trucking. I sigh. This is not me but the circumstances require it. "Ohhh," I say, "you really would be surprised, Jaz," and give her a lecherous wink, and lick my lips a la Tony Abbott.

"No chance, Bucko," she retorts. "In the office is me wife, the other J - Jenny, and she'll have yer guts if yer try touchin' me pertootie." She gestures towards another hefty woman, who gives a gay wave through the open office window.

"Don't take any crap from Jaz," bellows the other 'J', "she's not interested in yer light rigid. Just me!"

Jaz grins, slapping me on my butt. "Me and youse'll get on just fine. We'll get yer licence in no fuckin' time. How old are yer, love?"

I hold out my light-rigid licence for inspection. She fumbles for the glasses wedged within her cleavage and gazes at my card. "Seventy - sheesh," she blows through her remaining teeth, making a strange whistling noise. "Yer'll only have yer medium rigid for five years before they take it off ya."

"Five years of driving The Beast is good enough for me. It's not catering and nobody will discuss my PSA levels."

"The Beast?" she says, raising an eyebrow. She doesn't query the PSA comment.

I explain The Beast, in loving terms.

After the paperwork, Jaz takes me to meet the vehicle on which I'll be learning.

"Meet Betty," rasps Jaz. "Ain't she a beauty?"

Betty's a rusty blue Bedford Model S. "A 1960 model," says Jaz with unrestrained pride resting her big mitt on the rusting exhaust poking coyly out of the dented bonnet. "Four speed manual gearbox with synchromesh in the three forward gears. 6-cylinder engine. Original cabin layout 'though we've added seatbelts. Four engine rebuilds and over 650,000 miles on the clock."

"Miles?" I question.

"Changin' the speedo is illegal."

I stare at the museum piece. It can't be further from my beautiful Beast, both in age and technology. I've not driven a manual vehicle in thirty years and here I am expected to learn to drive a manual truck with something called synchromesh - a feature that unaccountably makes me think of black lingerie. Thankfully, not on Jaz. "Not quite what I expected," I mutter.

"Oh. Guess yer were 'specting a 2025 Scania? If yer wanted to learn one of them then yer've come to the wrong place, and yer'll 'ave to shell out a few thousand more - and spend six months learnin'. Yer got time and shekels?"

I knew that the fire brigade would pay, or I could, but the timing was an issue. Curley was hanging up his boots and hose shortly, and I knew the other driver training places were booked out for months.

Jaz could see me hesitating. "Look," she concedes, "she may not be in 'er prime but if yer can drive Betty then yer can fuckin' drive anythin'."

That was a persuasive argument. "Okay," I say, "Let's give it a burl."

I struggle to climb into the cabin as there were no radical new-fangled handles that modern vehicles sport and to my mortification Jaz had to give me a big shove on the butt to get me up and in.

"I'll get used to it," I reassure her.

"Don't yer dare. Yer only get one bum shove per month," she cackles.

"That's not what I mean," I mumble to myself, as I rearrange myself to find some comfort on the split and lumpy vinyl bench seat.

"Soz about the bench," says Jaz, pointing to the rips. "We usually have a seat cover but Bruce pissed on it and Jen's not yet bunged it out in the sun."

"Bruce? The mechanic?" I look aghast.

"Nah, the dog, stupid."

Phew! That explains the smell. It isn't Jaz, which was my first worried guess.

She turns and gazes appraisingly at me, making me squirm uncomfortably on the odoriferous seat. "What?" I say, defensively.

"Nothin'. I was just gunna give you the checklist."

"Oh yes," I say. I quite like checklists - they focus me when preparing client cases. "This is the pre-start checklist?"

"Nah. It's the failure checklist. If yer wanna get your licence this is what will fail yer."

"Righto."

"Yer take your eyes off the road for more than three seconds; yer take both your hands off the steering wheel; yer grind the gears; yer fail to come to a complete stop at a stop sign; yer don't look in both yer mirrors every ten seconds; yer go over the speed limit; yer tired, drunk or skagged; yer touch yer phone; yer touch me, I break yer fuckin' face..." The list goes on and on. The only thing of which I was certain is I won't touch Jaz. Last thing I want is to have Jen confronting me over contretemps in Betty. Anyway, even if desire were present, and it certainly isn't, there is no way the bench seat would cope.

My twelve lessons with Jaz go well - after the first misunderstanding about synchromesh, and bumping the shed while reversing, and getting stuck in the Woolworths car park, and forgetting the height limitation on the Foreshore Bridge and backing into my Porsche - that last one hurt. Other than that, the lessons go well, and Jaz has had no excuse to 'break my fuckin' face'. Indeed, we get on well - the tattooed virago and the smooth-shaven lawyer. It's with genuine affection that she shakes my hand on test day. "Remember, anyone who can drive Betty through the centre of Perth in the middle of rush hour, can pass any driving test. I won't wish yer luck. Yer don't need it."

The driving test inspector looks at me askance as he climbs into Betty. He wrinkles his nose at the smell in the cabin. I give him a bright smile. Jaz's comment about not needing luck gives me confidence.

But woe. I learn maths the hard way. I know 60 mph equals 80kph and 40mph equals 60kph. But as the copper points out to me, it doesn't. 40 mph is 64.3 kph and in a medium semi-rigid, in the centre of Perth that's a fine of $850 and 3 demerit points, taking my non-existent mediumsemi rigid licence to minus 3 points and a fail. The inspector slams Betty's door in disgust and the side mirror falls off.

Back at the depot, I suggest to Jaz, rather forcefully, that a more modern truck in which to undertake tests is needed. She shakes her head slowly. "Nah, Betty's okay. It's yer maths. I'll book yer another test."

I walk away. Time to move on.

Sitting around the BBQ at the fire shed, I look sadly at The Beast.

"I'm sorry yer failed yer licence," says Jim quietly.

"It's fine. It's fine," I lie. "I can't wait to take over catering. I'll make the best sambos you've ever tasted but on one proviso."

"What's that?"

"You never ask me about my PSA levels... and... I can sometimes sit in The Beast."

"Sure," he says. "It's just great to still have you on the crew."

We clink long necks, take a long pull and gaze at the bright stars overhead. I know it will work out.