The Best View I Never Saw

Header illustration: an imagined evening in a Perth penthouse overlooking the river.

Back in the 1980s, I lived in a high-rise apartment building called Terrace Place, on Perth’s Terrace Road. It was one of those places where visitors would come through the door, say hello and immediately drift towards the windows.

The view did that to people.

Below lay Langley Park, then the Swan River, with South Perth on the far side. I remember Jessica’s restaurant in the nearby Hyatt complex too. It was a wonderful part of Perth to live in, and I thoroughly enjoyed being there.

Each year, the fireworks over the river drew crowds to the foreshore. People would arrive hours early to claim a patch of grass. From my balcony, I had an unobstructed view without having to take a picnic blanket anywhere.

It was rather like having a private box at the theatre.

Naturally, I decided to share it.

An extra guest

I invited Alex and his wife to join me. Alex was my dentist and oral-surgery friend—the same Alex who once let me scrub up and watch a wisdom-tooth operation.

He asked whether he could bring a friend.

“Of course,” I said. The more the merrier.

His friend was also a doctor. At the time, I didn’t know many medical professionals, and I rather liked the idea of an evening of intelligent conversation with people who knew things I didn’t.

When they arrived, I met the first person with dwarfism I had ever known personally. He was charming, witty and confident, and within a few minutes I had stopped thinking about his height.

Then I asked what field of medicine he was in.

“Gynaecology,” he replied.

I nearly inhaled a cashew.

My imagination immediately supplied several entirely unhelpful thoughts. Did medical specialists come in different sizes? Were proctologists next, and chiropodists smaller still?

It was childish, I know. Fortunately, it all stayed inside my head.

Outwardly, I nodded with what I hoped was professional maturity. Inwardly, I was hanging on by a thread.

He was excellent company. My contribution, for those few moments, was largely the effort required to keep a straight face.

The balcony fills up

As more guests arrived, the apartment filled with conversation, laughter and the clink of glasses. I wasn’t a particularly experienced host, but I was determined nobody would go hungry or thirsty.

Plates of nibbles appeared. Drinks were replenished. Empty glasses were collected. There always seemed to be something that needed carrying somewhere.

For a while, everything went very well.

Then the fireworks began.

The first explosions lit up the sky and my guests headed for the balcony. It was generous by apartment standards, but there are limits to even the finest real estate. Soon it was packed with people admiring the display over the Swan River.

People at the front had magnificent views. Those behind them had reasonably good views. Anyone further back relied heavily on optimism.

And where was the man who had invited everybody to enjoy his wonderful view?

Inside.

Serving drinks.

The host’s view

Every time I headed towards the balcony, somebody needed another drink. Every time I reached the kitchen, somebody wanted more ice. Every time I thought I might finally see a firework, another empty platter appeared.

Boom!

Everybody cheered.

I missed that one.

Boom!

Another round of applause.

Missed that one too.

I had provided the apartment, the balcony, the food, the drinks and what appeared to be one of the best views in Perth. I was becoming thoroughly acquainted with the kitchen.

I didn’t begrudge anyone a good evening. I wanted people to enjoy themselves. Unfortunately, I had arranged things so successfully that enjoying themselves was almost entirely their department.

By the end of the night, I had hosted a splendid fireworks party and seen virtually none of the fireworks.

My guests went home happy. The food had been demolished. The drinks had gone down well.

The fireworks were apparently magnificent.

I had the best view in the house.

Everybody else saw it.