Some time in the late 1970s, a Moran modular sofa was unboxed at our house in Tasmania.
It was avocado velvet, the height of glamour and a big deal. The pieces were cubes that pulled apart and could be reconfigured into a bed for overnight guests. Dad and I sat on it every week to watch Dallas. Sometimes I sat on the floor while he brushed my hair and we laughed about Lucy Ewing, who he really took against.
The Moran stayed.
In the 1990s, Mum and Dad had it reupholstered in a sort of chintz. When they finally bought a new couch, the Moran went to my brother’s kids’ playroom, where it was hammered. Play-Doh was smushed into it. Slime was made on it. Children used it as a jungle gym.
Every time I visited, I coveted that modular. Eventually, I told my brother, who swapped it no questions asked for a Freedom sofa bed. The Moran was packed off to a Mornington upholsterer called Gerry. He rang in awe: “This is a unicorn.”
We had it redone in gold velvet. For months, I hovered over its scary perfection. When one of my daughter’s friends got mascara on a seat cushion, it was the end of days.
Now the sofa lives at the beach. Wet dogs loll on it. People with sandy bottoms and red wine glasses sit on it. I lie on it reading and wipe Toblerone fingers on the velvet.
It’s nearly as old as I am and has had several serious reinventions, some more successful than others. It’s not precious any more. It’s just really good. Tougher than it looks.
I turn 60 next week. I’ve been thinking about this partly because people expect you to. Sixty has heft. But when I look backwards, my life doesn’t present itself as a meaningful highlights reel. It comes in tiny flickers.
The gold bracelet watch Mum gave me for my 13th birthday that looked like something from Bruce & Walsh on Sale of the Century. Being scared of Bon Scott on Countdown. Hearing Rock the Casbah at a Torquay New Year’s Eve disco at 17 and wanting something to happen.
Driving alone for the first time, in a ’67 Corona so idiosyncratic you could see the road through the gear stick. Meeting my first baby.
Learning things: to type. Roast a chook. Breastfeed. Dress.
This year Dad taught me how to divide orchids. They all flowered like mad.
Nearly 30 years ago I learnt I was allergic to fake tan. This week I forgot, and now I’m heading to Bali for my 60th with welts on my face.
So the learning continues.
Former Melbourne Storm star Ryan Papenhuyzen said something this week about walking away from rugby league and its millions at 28.
“Just because you’re good at it doesn’t mean you need to do it. Find something that aligns more to how you want to live your life.”
Imagine knowing that at 28. At 60, I’m beginning to.
There have been hard things. I spent a long time trusting nobody but myself. Precious people have died. Hearts and bodies turn out not to be entirely reliable. Neither do marriages, plans or fake tan.
There have also been two gorgeous husbands, three children I would run into the fires of hell for, sisters, friends, work, dogs, the sea. And, extraordinarily, both my parents.
Yesterday they met me at the bookshop where I work, after my shift. We had flourless orange cake for afternoon tea.
Next week I’ll wake at a resort and be a senior, with my husband, brother, kids and their partners at the breakfast buffet. My first thoughts will be of Mum and Dad.
I don’t know if the best is yet to come. That seems an unreasonable demand to make of the future. Some of the best may already have happened: first love. Cheese and wine in Rome in 1988. A City2Surf. Writing a book.
But something pretty good surely is. And like the Moran, I’ve turned out to have decent bones.
Gratitude has always made me leery. It sounds like something Meghan would write in cursive on a $39 candle.
But here I am. Grateful as all get out.
Kate Halfpenny is an author and the founder of Bad Mother Media.
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