|In Clarence Street in Sydney, there are at least three cycleries. This was glimpsed through the doorway of one of them.|
My father's first job, at the end of second year high-school - aged 14 - was to work in a haberdashery warehouse. He was one of those back-room johnnies, who cut lengths from bolts of cloth for salesmen who travelled around our state, trying to flog longer lengths to small stores. He vowed never again; never again would he take a job where the superior checked the cleanliness of his finger-nails each morning.
So, upon his demob from the army at the end of 1945 - with a wife and son to support - he set himself up as a fruit & veg man travelling in his converted tabletop Bedford from street to street in suburbs close to where he lived, selling produce to "the missus".
He was bemoaning to me, late in his life, that when he came back from the army, he should have opened a bicycle shop. As you can see from my photo yesterday, he was a cyclist from way-back. He had the build for it. He had the sales-savvy for it. He could strip and reassemble nearly anything, no matter how many wheels. He had a truck licence, a car licence, and a motor-bike licence.
We all have our shouldas ...