Harris Street, the last time I visited the open garden.

I'm drawn by the creativity and the energy of the Joneses. But let me list the links that I see ~ again:
In the 50s I watched t.v., in a house, a little further down Harris St, with my parents and our friends, the van Hoorns.*
I stayed in Bonegilla, like Annie.
I attended high school, in the same building, as Derek.
I had an art exhibition in the same gallery, as Malcolm.
I was a teacher at Mascot Public School, like Annie.
Only the links with Nell are a little more tenuous.
(I haven't written (my) book(s) (yet).
It did strike me that at Malcolm's birthday party, entertainment was provided by a friend of hers from up where two close friends from Newcastle live.
.
* Until my parents and Gerda and Gerard van Hoorn, with whom we shared a house, bought a tv, because their daughter was in bed with measles or chickenpox (I forget), the six of us crowded into the front room of the de Vries family, in Harris St, on Friday nights.
Actually, the women usually spent most of the time, in the kitchen with Mrs de Vries, whom, they considered, badly needed the company.
I would not JUST drive to Harris St. There would be no reason. Just like I only drive through Flint Street, Matraville, where the two families shared those "best years of our lives", in that old house, unless I've given my daughter a lift to work, in Kensington.
That ritual includes a drive to the rock pool north of Maroubra Beach (Think Heartbreak High) and a drive to the Flint Street, past the junction, where Bob and Dot Potter taught me to dance and past Donovan Ave, where Else Brandman taught me to play the piano accordion.
I just need to reassure myself that these locations are still there, just like the houses in Harris Street.