Bazza shoots through for a bit of R&R and sends a postcard from Broken Hill to his mates at the pub... problem is, it's been a long time since anyone at the pub has seen a postcard.
Mick entered the pub and blinked to adjust to the dim light. He scanned the clientele and bit his bottom lip... No Bazza.
Mick heaved himself onto a stool at the front bar.
The young bar attendant served him a schooner – waived payment whilst passing him a photograph – and stared intently. The bar attendant's eyes creased as he leaned in.
Mick turned the photograph over and met the young bar attendant’s continued stare.
“It’s called a postcard…p-o-s-t-c-a-r-d…In the olden days people used to send you one of these to make you jealous about their holiday. The sky is always blue, the sun shining and people have perfect smiles.”
Mick passed him the postcard and the bar attendant turned it every which way and rubbed his chin.
“What’s this thing in the corner and how do you show you like it? I mean there is no button at the bottom of it to press to give it the ‘thumbs up’, a ‘heart’ or an emoji and you can’t even leave a comment.”
Mick ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.
“The thing in the corner is called a stamp… now a stamp… ahh forget it.”
Mick shook his head and took a sizeable drink.
“Now if you don’t like the postcard, you put it in the bin. I suppose if you like it a lot, you would put it up on the noticeboard over there and people might make a comment to each other whilst they’re having a drink.”
Mick ignored the stunned mullet look and put his glasses on.
Dear Mick,
You probably have forgotten I told you I was heading out west for a bit of a road trip.
I’ve left twenty dollars with the bar attendant for a beer or two, as I don’t want you talking about me.
I decided to head in the opposite direction to all the holidaymakers heading for the coast in January and am currently in Broken Hill.
Mick paused for a sip and muttered.
“That figures… contrary old Bazza.”
The sunsets are easily the most striking feature this far west. The sun exhausts itself into a red earth with soothing soft yellows, fading to purples of varying hues. It really is quite spiritual and almost forgiving of whatever sins it has witnessed over the day, decade or even millenniums. It’s somewhat unifying. The earth’s unquestioning acceptance of a weary sun at the end of the day does bring on reflection.
Anyhow Mick, you’re probably nodding off into your free schooner. On a lighter note, the beer is much better out here. Water is at such a premium, they can’t afford to dilute their amber fluid.
All the best,
Bazza
The young bar attendant interrupted his thoughts.
"Well Mick, do you like it enough to put the postcard thing up on the noticeboard?"
Mick took a sip of his beer, gave it a good swirl in his mouth and gave the schooner glass a wary look.
"Ahhh…. yeah okay, but you better give me some whiteout. I’ll knock out the last paragraph."
The young bar attendant’s eyes widened.
“What’s whiteout?”
John Longhurst is a former industrial advocate and political adviser. He currently works as an English and history teacher on the South Coast of NSW.

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