Somehow, the Electrolux man (notorious for wearing a stack hat while driving) inveigled himself into our home too, but we'd greet him with a yawn because his wares were too pragmatic to enchafe a mid-week afternoon.

But the Avon and Tupperware ladies were like merchants from far off lands, their wagons laden with all manner of hypnotic goods (soap on a rope ... soap on a rope ...).

We'd arrive home to find one of them with mum in the family room and we'd loiter in the kitchen, smearing SAOs with Vegemite, champing for the transaction to be complete and the trader - silver having crossed her palm - to be shown the door so we could swoop on the gimcrack booty.

We'd marvel at the audacity of plastic sheaths in which cordial could be frozen to conjure homemade icy poles (was that even legal?), we'd drape our fingers in fine trinkets, inhale heady bouquets wafting from glazed vessels housing the latest blends of exotic talc (Persian Wood, anyone?).

Not that direct selling didn't have its dark side, as those of us still bearing the mental and physical scars of the K-Tel 'Hair Magician' will attest.

Regardless, such was the pioneering spirit of consumerism in our household, a fair proportion of our education other than school and Sale of the Century could be attributed to what arrived in the mail because we were also Reader's Digest devotees.

As others in the neighbourhood took the oh-so-predictable World Book Encyclopedia route to knowledge, we were smug in our extensive collection of RD reference tomes. From sex to sewing to sarcophagi, we had a book for it; each tastefully presented and perfectly distilled for incredibly busy families unencumbered by the internet and with just the one six-digit phone number to memorise.

Chief among these was Reader's Digest Complete Book of Australian Birds.

First published in 1976, the iconic blue doorstop with the pair of olive-backed sunbirds on the cover weighed in at just over three kilos and bulged with more than 700 colour photos splashed across 600-plus pages. Our heavily used version kept pride of place on the mantelpiece above the gas heater and for sheer wildlife overload, the only thing that came close was J&H International Corporation's 21-volume Encyclopedia of the Animal World.

We managed to lose those laminated treasures, so I was thrilled to have stumbled upon an intact collection at the tip, although my white whale of the dump remains a trove of all 43 ValuesTales hardcovers.

But the RD bumper book of birds was a keeper. Ours was the revised 1986 edition, a special year for anyone interested in the natural world because Halley's Comet was coming.

They were 12 truly golden months for the curious.

Not only did Australian Geographic and Big Trouble in Little China come out, but for the first time in 75-odd years, the 'dirty snowball' of space was hurtling back through our neck of the woods and most probably "wouldn't return in our lifetime" an oft-repeated statement which, to a 13-year-old, seemed overly alarmist albeit pricked with sudden existential threat.

Across generations, the comet and its fantastic journey had inspired fear and wonder and superstition. We'd all heard the spectacular tales of spectacular tails, the records of sublime sublimation.

The 1910 manifestation was, by all accounts and a few photos, especially impressive, so, by the law of '80s excess, the next time around would be even better.

How could we optimise this momentous event?

Once again, Reader's Digest was our lodestar.

It was via RD we secured a pair of limited-edition Halley's Comet binoculars and a wise buy they were too. The myopic Hubble was still four years off and while many novice astronomers (the gullible World Book crowd) would be getting only half a show with telescopes, we'd be copping both barrels via our all-powerful apparatus.

When, at 4am in the backyard, the moment came and I raised my eyes skyward, I was quite certain they'd be meeting a dazzling white dragon spanning the horizon, every scale of its shimmering cataphract captured in exquisite detail by our precisely tuned field glasses.

But there was no dragon - barely a tailless skink - just a smudge; a distant blur. A toenail clipping amid the stars. A perihelion of pathetic proportions. A coma in a coma.

Halley's Comet was one, big cosmic hoax.

MORE B. R. DOHERTY:

That disappointment, combined with a prudent fear of Triffids, has informed my tendency to steer clear of mass stargazing for the past quarter of a century but I hauled the kids from their warm beds early Wednesday because something told me the Eta Aquariids would be different.

The planets were literally aligned for redemption.

Not only was Halley's Comet responsible for the predicted meteor shower, we'd be watching from a credulous village, which, back in 1986, buried a time capsule in honour of the galactic nomad.

And, indeed, in that frosty morning punctuated by the plaintive cries of plovers and the territorial hissing of possums, the universe was trying to tell us something, unfortunately, the message was "you should have stayed in bed".

After 30 minutes and only a handful of shy streakers to show for it, we realised Halley was the deadbeat dad of the solar system - full of promise but ultimately not to be trusted.

Although, we still enjoyed the experience and I think we'll even have another crack come August when the Perseids are alleged to be firing up.

Rather magically, in that predawn half hour, we didn't talk TV or memes or when school goes back; instead, we pinpointed the Southern Cross, shared our outrage at the International Astronomical Union's scandalous treatment of Pluto, composed a few awful planetary mnemonics (Many Very Energetic Moose Juggle Sables Up North Pole) and, occasionally, saw a shooting star.

Across subsequent evenings this week, we even found ourselves drawn outside again, this time to watch the rise of the stunning super moon - talk about a class act.

Forget your show-off meteor showers, perfidious comets, even our moody sun; the moon eclipses them all.

If Halley is a deadbeat dad, then the moon is our mum; beautiful, dependable, eternal.

Happy Mother's Day, moon.

We do love you so.