Angie celebrated her 60th by climbing Mt Kosciusko and drinking champagne with friends, followed by a mammoth party. Geoff also wrote light verse for her: Rob is 62 and feels a lot younger. Poet Geoff Page wrote this for his 60th:
A Light Verse for Angie, Turning 60

Angie Giblin’s turning sixty.
How can this have occurred?
She did not seek out our permission.
We did not give the word.

I met her back there in her thirties.
I thought she’d stay that way,
parachuted from Berlin,
a sort of Salomé,

or that is what Rob Wilton thought,
somewhat depressed by life –
and made damn sure in six months flat
his girlfriend was his wife.

His happiness grew day by day.
He saw how much he’d need her.
How could he resist a girl
who really knew her Lieder?

My Alison’s insisted that
I use the term melisma,
a key ingredient, I’m told,
in vocalists’ charisma.

Then Angie joined the Music School
who wouldn’t sing her tune
but warbled disconcertingly
of Schubert and the moon.

They could not spoil her joie de vivre;
not even bureaucrats
or prima donnas at their desks,
staging grand éclats.

About this time she then renewed
her love for opera,
showing that a lack of cash
can’t really Stopera.

The son she had with Rob’s grown tall
and now is playing jazz
instead of Mendelssohn on drums.
What taste that fellow has!

The sixties decade is the best.
I’ve had eight years by now.
One’s kids have more or less moved out;
the only question’s how

to best enjoy oneself with friends
and cycle round the lake,
stopping off for cappuccini
and low-fat bits of cake.

Our Rob would have sail her the world;
as crew she’s just C+.
Our Angie’s clicking sixty now
and staying here with us.

A Light Verse for Rob, Turning 60

Robert Wilton’s turning sixty.
How can this be true?
It happened once to me as well.
It’s quite an easy queue.

I’ve known Rob since the seventies,
a youthful draft resister.
I’ve known Virginia as well,
his enterprising sister.

Most of us have known Rob Wilton
through all his several lives.
I’ve taught his daughter Cassie
though not his clever wives.

I’m not quite old enough for that
though it may seem that way
when I think back three decades to
the year my hair turned grey.

Rob is a major-general’s son.
I hope that rank’s correct.
His teaching style, as I recall,
was somewhat less direct.

Indeed, Rob taught most everything
a system could require;
he tried to finish up but he’s
not ready to retire.

Rob’s been, I think, a deputy.
The worst of what he’s done
is Narrabundah’s day each year
of mandatory fun.

I dreamed through twenty-two of these;
forswore the jelly wrestle,
the World War One of ripe tomatoes.
We hope that he will nestle

down into his early sixties,
content with his success –
and almost never put to sea
without his GPS.

He’s like a latter-day Ulysses,
who, though he took his package,
will not be seen again until
we sight the final wreckage.

Too much work can weaken you.
It’s time a man retired.
And so I move, “Good Luck to Rob”.
I think my time’s expired.

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