My uncle had emailed me a parking pass and a guest tag for the Melbourne Club. I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was a member, as was my grandfather before him. My dear grandfather had taken me to the Club for my eighteenth birthday. Which was six months before he died.
The concierge scanned my pass with a phone, checked all was in order, and smiled the benevolent smile of someone whose station in life is higher than your own, as he pointed me toward the dining room. The old Brad would have sniggered, been asked to leave, and been embarrassed. The new Brad thanked the man and trotted off.
Uncle Walton saw me walk into the room and waved me over to his table. I noticed he pushed himself up using the arms of the chair. The knees must be playing up again.
The knees must be playin
