The Army of Occupation, on Eyre Square, pledged to be unassailable. Four o’clock in the morning, forty Guards swooped and demolished the camp. They would try to enshrine the date as a new icon of anarchy. The Occupiers pledged they’d be back for Phase 2.The same week, Robin Gibb, Donna Summer died. A DJ termed it the final death of disco.A man was found beaten to death in a warehouse off the Grattan Road. He was, according to neighbors,“A quiet man with a love of dogs.”Odd the connections the mind makes. I’d been maybe five and my beloved father came home with a pup, a mongrel, with every breed included and love being the glue. An only child, I’d been beyond delighted. My mother, who was the she-wolf from the inner sanctum of hell, disguised in a sickly fuzz-buzz religion, asked,“Another mouth to feed and who is going to find the money?”A rhetorical question, as she’d already known the answer. A week later the dog was gone. She blamed my father, said he’d left the front door open.
