Forgetting oneself – Pelican, St Kilda

Still, by this time three bottles of wine had been polished off (the Sauvignon Blanc proving superior to the Reisling, much to Bruce’s surprise) so Mr Pub Grub enjoyed the ribbing. What’s more, he and his partner were extremely grateful to have been introduced to the Pelican, in Fitzroy Street, something of a St Kilda institution with its scattergun approach to tapas, wide selection of wines and great location close to the promenade – one of the few places Bruce and Fran miss since moving north (Banff pizzas, Mart 130 and the Taphouse pub in Carlisle Street the other major notables). And, come 2.45am, he wasn’t the one dropping his trousers on the Big Mouth dancefloor like a grinning 16-year-old leaving Fran to explain to the very friendly, but thoroughly bemused bouncer that, yes, unfortunately this man was indeed her husband.

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Lovely people, lovely place: Prince Albert, Williamstown

Fran, were she to be a character in a computer game a la Tekken or Soul Blade, would reward gamers who unlock her special move by pressing X-A-A-UP-L2-B-B-DOWN-LEFT-CIRCLE CLOCKWISE-A-B-hold L1-X by taking both sets of house keys with her to work and leaving said gamer locked in their house for the day.

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Keep off the oysters, Fran!

In comparison to the saltwater crocs he’d recently spotted and the stingrays he’d chased fruitlessly with a spear an hour earlier, eating an oyster seemed a mere bagatelle. That it had just been hacked off a rock by a grizzled man bearing a knife and measured several inches in length was of only minor concern. The problems started when it proved far too big to swallow and Bruce was forced to chew into its slimy, salty mingingness…

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Claypots, St Kilda: great fish and oddities

The rough hewn wooden bar with animatronic cat and dangling rubber man, French music, greasy spiced nuts, promise of $5 seafood paella and Sunday swap shops (with oysters) transported him somewhere far away – a nebulous place somewhere near the Mediterranean, perhaps.

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You’re one of us now

An impromptu game of bottle top tennis started up; the marinated ribs drew hearty congratulations; some folks originating from the communes of northern NSW sparked up a couple of joints; the recycling bin couldn’t cope with the number of empties; a round of applause went up from the guests for their hosts. Other than running out of beer – twice – it seemed the test was passed.

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