Becoming a parent turns most of us from rational, honest people into lying, cajoling and bribing individuals with a host of associated questionable behaviours. We lie to children about all manner of things, including the fat red man, the chocolate delivering member of the Leporidae family, and that dog that went to “stay on a farm”. Food in particular seems to bring out some of the worst examples, probably because children can be such picky eaters, which fuels our irrational fear they will starve to death or become an axe murderer or have some other grisly fate befall them. The story of space pie is one such example.

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I live in an inner city suburb, about seven kilometres from the CBD (and slightly less to the beach, which is great). Its proximity to the city means it’s a very old suburb that originally had large homesteads with land allocations for farming, which has been subdivided and filled in over the years. The local primary school started in 1861 not long after the first Europeans arrived in South Australia in 1836, the church down the road had the first part built in 1847, and the house next door is one of the original homesteads built in 1863.

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Murray Tyler


South Australia