Hong Kong Garden
In the early 80s I was fresh out of high school and working at the Rural & Industries Bank of Western Australia, on the corner of Barrack and Hay Streets in Perth. My team mate and new friend Deana had shown me the ropes at work and taken me under her wing. Although just a year older than I was, Deana, with her jet-black Pixi cut hair, enormous brown eyes and super-pale English complexion, was far more sophisticated than this suburban rebel without a pause and she was truly, madly, deeply in love with Cameron, a Teller on the ground floor, who was a dead ringer for Clark Kent. I, on the other hand, used to spend every stolen moment writing love letters to Michael Jackson. A practice not approved of by my boyfriend, but that was his problem.