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dark, Spanishlooking eyes served Les, wishing him a happy day as he walked out with a carton of fruit and vegetables and three two-litre containers of fresh orange juice. Les put all this in the car, then looked at his watch. The sun was well over the yardarm, so he thought he might check out the hotel and have a cool one.
    Les missed it before, but as he walked up the steps into the beer garden he noticed a sign strung above, white on black, saying CLUB ALGIERS OVER-30S DISCO. FRIDAY NIGHT, QUAY WEST DISCO . An over-30s disco, Norton smiled to himself. That could be all right. And I can just squeeze in there. I might come down and have a look. There were a few people scattered around the beer garden; Les strolled through the chairs and tables into the bar which was next to the food area. It had more chairs and tables, a jukebox, Sky TV near an open fireplace and another area to the right full of card machines. He ordered a schooner of New and, being a mug tourist, made a few enquiries from a tall, young barman in black. Yes, Club Algiers was on in the disco on Fridays and it wasn’t a bad night; lots of people. The disco was also open tonight and this would be the last Wednesday of the summer season. There was another bar upstairs—The Baron Riley. It was a piano bar and named after a ship that sank off Terrigal in 1860, and sold the best cocktails on the Central Coast.Les thanked the barman then walked outside and drank his schooner at a table under the vines overlooking the ocean.
    The sea breeze had picked up slightly, flicking even more white caps across the blue of the ocean, but it was still a treat sitting there ‘far from the madding crowd’ in Bondi. The south end of Terrigal might have been a bit knocked around from the storm, however there was still a long, beautiful expanse of golden sand running all the way to Wamberal Lagoon and Forrester’s Beach beyond and the surrounding trees made the low, mountain range in from the sea a carpet of deep, mist-covered green. Les could have sat there and had another five schooners easily; it was peaceful, relaxed and the sound of the waves softly and rhythmically washing over the sand and rocks below was almost hypnotic. But all the food in the car, especially the steaks, was calling and Norton’s mouth was watering worse than his stomach was rumbling. He drained his schooner to the last drop of froth and this time drove home via the church on the corner.
    It took Les roughly an hour to stow away all the food and booze, organise some more ice and work out the microwave oven, along with everything else in the kitchen, sip a Eumundi and feed himself. He made a rocket salad with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, baked half a kumera smothered with cottage cheese and herb dressing and grilled two of the choicest, boneless sirloins and two sausages which he washed down with fresh orange juice, bread rolls and a small plunger of coffee while he read the paper. The solid feed didn’t slow Les down; if anything it seemed to liven him up.I don’t know whether it was that orange juice or the air up here, he mused as he finished the paper, but I feel like I could go ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Well, five anyway. After burping and farting around while he cleaned up the mess, Norton now decided it was time for drinky-poohs at Price’s.
    Cooking a meal wasn’t much trouble, and this was easier again by ten. He found a large, high-ball glass, half filled it with ice, added a liberal splash of Bacardi, a moderately liberal splash of strawberry vodka and topped it up with fresh orange juice. The first mouthful nearly sent shivers up Norton’s spine. Oh yes, oh yes indeed. He rummaged through his tapes, dropped one into the stereo and settled back on the lounge. Lee Kemaghan slipped into ‘Skinny Dippin’ ’, Les gargled some more Bacardi, vodka and OJ and started to wonder if it got any better than this.
    After about ten drinks Les lost