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  • I was around 3years old, going by Mum's recollections of all events considered.

    I loved that smell of vinyl. That particular type of vinyl.
    And the aroma of it mixed with that of the plastic sleeve.
    Even these days with aversion to plastic, that doesn't hide those memories of that magic smell.

    Dad had afforded a second-hand record player. In a little, yellow-wood veneered low-set cabinet.
    Those early ears feasting on King Cole, Uncle Harry the Belafonte, The Platters, Trini Lopez, Tea-U-wanna? Brass with Uncle Herb and stuff like that inside, and birdsongs, clap-sticks, yidaki (didg) and aboriginal singing outside.

    I'm sitting there, beside this new addition to the lounge room space, the record player.
    This is technology brother!
    In awe, smelling, listening, amazed, wondering, asking.
    "Mummy, how does it make it?"
    Dad walks through the room.
    Mischievous Dad.
    He tells me that there are little people sitting in the middle, going round and round, singing.
    So I'm sitting there, watching the middle bit, go round and round, looking for the little people.
    I say I can't see them. "Where dad?"
    "There! In the middle! You have to look real close."
    I was fair-dinkum really looking hard for them.
    I hear behind me, Mum giggling along with Dad.

    At some stage I realise that he was only gammon.

    Image: Older brother Dave's high-tech spin-gear.
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