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The Lost Cafe Nostalgic already for something lost just a few months ago, that’s me, pining for an hour or so back on the wide verandah of the Fawkner Park tennis pavilion - ‘Cafe Fawkner’ says its faded awning - lately, but no longer, Sistas Cafe. Admirable both, the sisters, tall slim and smiling. Which was which I never learned, even while ordering one of the toasties they’d named after themselves. What were those names again? - something East European. One had a son called Harley - his Dad no doubt a bikie. When not at kindergarten at the north edge of the pavilion he’d sit at a corner table, quiet with paper and coloured pens. I’d leash my dog by the best verandah possie, pay for coffee and toastie, join the dog; together we’d survey the park’s westward prospect - high-fenced tennis courts often the scene of coaching - the younger the player the wilder the hits. (Balls fell where later my dog lurched and gripped his take-home gift.) My snack and drink would arrive, with one of those brilliant smiles. Soon I’d feel the benefit in mouth, stomach, and caffeine- roused brain - the kids’ tennis seemed somehow improved. Beyond, through the grand trees, I’d glimpse my new home, one of those old flats I like to tell you about. ‘Kia Ora’! - Maori for hello and welcome - here in Melbourne because the cordial-factory tycoon wanted flats for his staff. Art deco? - ‘Streamline moderne’, not bad for the 1930s! Pity about the office blocks on either side. My vantage point on the sisters’ verandah put all in green perspective. Good to spend time here most days. Till one morning - it’s locked! Next, reopened - without food, just coffee - sold me by a woman neither slim nor tall nor smiling. The sisters had done a bunk. Well, an hour on the verandah isn’t what it was. I’ve changed my routine. Dog and I march briskly past, holding ourselves in. Elsewhere, without me, Harley may continue his colouring-in. Coffee and eponymous toasties - shared privately by the lovely sisters.