In the stables, ceiling fans kept collecting my attention with their unsynchronous spinning, and a gecko yipped as the light began to soften. The old man was leaning on a metal rail watching his horse inhaling its lucerne hay.

“You from down there…that Sydney?” he asks.

“Yeah, we live at the beach, near Manly,” at which, he shifts his weight off the rail and I look at his scaly, skinny, legs-eleven, disappearing down into his now over-sized and over-used RM Williams boots.

“No, don’t like the beach,” he shakes his head, and is quiet for a long while before adding, “rivers and dams are alright though…” he leans back on the rail and talks quietly to his horse.

“So he has a run next week, hey?” I say nodding at the big grey gelding and adopting my northqegian speak.

“Yes, they’ll both go ’round,” he sweeps one arm out to indicate the mare in the next stall.

“Are they good and fit?”

“They’ll go ’round alright,” he assures me.

He pushes off the rail and asks the little one in my arms,

“You seen a horse before girl?”

To which she nods and replies in cat-speak,

“Meow, meow!”

He blinks and asks, “You a cat?”

“Meow, meow!” she giggles as she nods again, and he smiles ever so slightly.

And then we stand without talking, because I know it is best not to ask him too much, he talks to you if and when he wants to. We watch on as the strapper works around us, muttering under her breath at our intrusion into her work-world. In the afternoon still, hot-humid air encompasses all, the gecko yipping is picking up, the strapper shovels shit and the fans spin, cobwebs dangling.

After a while the old man prepares to go home. He climbs into his car and reverses around us and waves, as I struggle with getting the kids into their seats. I watch him drive off and have to laugh at the trail of dust he leaves as he flings his car along his well-worn path. He’s defying odds, defying age, defying retirement, and sadly, he’s out-living his family and friends. He’s ninety seven and he is pretty fucking awesome.