Quicksand on Caxton Street

After the Bali Hai, Cliff was eager to find employment for his son, Gary, and suggested a trip down to Brisbane to explore opportunities. His idea was bold: he would buy a building on Caxton Street, while I would purchase and run a restaurant within it. I would pay him rent and employ Gary. On paper, it sounded like the start of something promising. At the time, I had a registered company, Mickeycliff Pty Ltd, which made an offer to buy the restaurant. The offer was accepted, but then Cliff changed his mind about purchasing the freehold. That left me in an impossible position — Mickeycliff Pty Ltd was committed to the deal, and I didn’t want a court case hanging over me. So, I pressed on. Caxton Street was busy, situated near Suncorp Stadium. It was known for its nightlife, and plans were underway to turn the old Victoria Barracks at the top of the street into a residential and shopping precinct. The timing seemed perfect. We returned to Brisbane, bought a lovely three-bedroom apartment in Paddington, and I took over Café Mediterraneo. But the dream quickly soured. The Brisbane Broncos moved from Suncorp to ANZ Stadium in Mt Gravatt, and with them went the crowds. The promised residential development at the barracks was shelved because of heritage restrictions. Suddenly, foot traffic disappeared. Café Mediterraneo was competing with established names like Gambaro’s, the LA Pub, Caxton Street Hotel, Casablanca, seafood takeaways, and nightclubs. Trade was patchy at best — quiet most of the week, with a few bursts of hens’ nights and parties in our courtyard on Saturdays. Even those were a struggle; the courtyard leaked badly in storms and was in constant need of repair. Meanwhile, Cliff and Zoe moved to Canada, leaving me with Gary. 
Early in the lease, Cliff decided he disliked the building’s exterior colour and had Gary repaint it without consulting me or the landlord. The landlord was furious. And further on in the lease, I returned from a short break to find Gary had ripped out the kitchen of the flat above the café without permission, proudly stating “I am improving it”. Though a skilled carpenter, he didn’t grasp that you can’t make major changes to a leased property without approval. I kept quiet — I had already decided to sell and hoped the landlord wouldn’t appear before the renovations were complete. On a personal level, things with Sheila were becoming quieter, more distant. She was content with her routines — church, city visits, and her independence — while I was caught up in the daily grind of a business that never found its feet. The gap between our lives grew more noticeable as the stress of the café wore on me. Eventually, the weight of it all — financial losses, Gary’s interference, landlord battles, and the strain at home — pushed me to cut my losses. I sold Café Mediterraneo at a loss. The new owner converted it into an Irish pub, which proved far more suited to Caxton Street’s nightlife, though it required major investment to thrive. For me, the chapter closed with a lesson: not every opportunity is a step forward — some are just detours that remind us of the value of cutting loose before you sink any deeper.