General News
6 March, 2026
A good ten bob's worth: Half a quid well spent, with Brian Lennen
Maryborough's Brian Lennen returns with an appetite-led adventure from his youth.
The heavy downpour the other day reminded me of how we amused ourselves when we had limited resources.
Torrents of water flooded down the street gutter and we were challenged to have matchstick races. The finish line was the grate of the storm water drain.
We barracked as if it was the Melbourne Cup, and the winner would boast of his success.
On one particular day we discovered that a 10 shilling note was trapped in the drain.
Our excitement was manifest, our problem was how to extract the treasure without it disappearing into the abyss. Johnno’s skinny arms almost grasped it, but he came excruciatingly close and nearly dislodged it.
All our minds imagined how we would spend the bounty. There was only one consideration: “Food!”. Ten bob would enable us to purchase enough grub to satisfy our insatiable appetites.
If the note was lost, our despondency would be overwhelming.
Neddy, the most resourceful of the group, had a solution to our dilemma. He removed a piece of paling from the fence and sharpened it with his pocket knife. Everyone carried a pocket knife in those days — we all dreamt of one day having a “Swiss army knife”.
The sharpened paling was successful, and after a couple of furtive attempts Ned was holding the dripping note. We were all like a pack of Cheshire cats — snaring the 10 shillings was never a doubt.
We had to decide what food we would purchase. As it was 10 in the morning and we all had voracious appetites, a feast was in store.
It was 1956, before the arrival of the American take-aways. No McDonalds, Kentucky Fried, etc. There was Benny’s Bakery, Hudson’s Bakery or Antonio’s Fish and Chip Shop. Kew Ming’s Chinese treats were only available on Fridays and the weekend, so it was out of the question.
We decided on an entree of potato cakes. They were three pence each or two shillings a dozen. So that left us eight shillings.
The potato cakes were washed down with a large bottle of ginger beer.
At the bakery we bought some day-old rolls, which were filled with four thick slices from “Hojniks”, a continental delicatessen that brought cabana to Australia and specialised in German sausages.
It was decided to spend the remainder of our cash — six shillings and three pence — on the next day. We all had interrupted sleeps mulling over what we would have.
It was decided that Mrs Hudson’s was the way to go. A mixed platter of pastries washed down with malted milks and a buttered, jam-filled Boston bun drained the coffers.
Our appetites were soon restored with an exhausting game of handball against Ossie Porter’s factory wall.
As I lie in bed at night struggling to sleep, my mind pictures Ned, Butch and Johnno, and our glorious days growing up.
My only memories are good ones.