We are half way up Box Hill. In outsized shorts & straw hats. Skinny white legs. Pastels were in fashion. A photograph catches three of the four of us in a Rik Mayall shrug. Louise behind the shutter. Happy against blue sky. Dave reckons he looks like a cowboy. Hank. I`d say they were more of a sombrero. Chico. Beneath the shade of a wide brim your fringe hides your face. We keep stopping our climb for me to kiss your drawn on mouth. Lost in the joy that you would let me. Your small smile at my every attempt. Dave and I would try to outdo each other with stupid routines. Some worked out well in advance. With props. It served to disguise a shyness and betrayed inexperience. It probably didn`t double for cool, but it made me forget that this was the first time. I`d make tapes for the car. Billy Bragg sharing the ride with early Stones, The Beatles screaming “I Saw Her Standing There”, Dion`s “Runaround Sue” and The Cure. Dave and I would sing along in a variety of voices. Bo Diddley energy. How we took the sunshine forgranted. Intrepid explorers lighting out, Sunday families all around us. Love is love and not fade away.