Wednesday, 12 June 1991

Hello Sis,

You’d better appreciate this punk, it’s the first time I’ve actually had to write anything for over six months.  I quit College in about March and have since been enduring the rigours of unemployment.  Now don’t cuss and swear, unemployment is quite respectable in a recession you know.  I think it’s about 10% now.  Life is dull without you here my noodle, no fights, at least not many.

I might be moving into the caravan soon ‘coz Dad’s restless sleeping is pissing me off – do not, however, mention that in your next letter.  I’ll probably be going to Melbourne Uni next year to do Arts until I figure out what I really want to do.  I’m so bored.

I met Josh and Bobby in the city today, it was the only other time I’d been out the front gate excluding the couple of times I had to go shopping with Mum.

It must be great living in the centre of London, although your room sounds a bit dingy.  Mums hip is a lot better, I caught her doing cartwheels the other day and had to remind her to slow down a wee bit.  I tell you I say thank you sweet Lord Jesus for not letting Dad find any of his bush cook books whilst Mum was in hospital with her hip, do you remember him making Eagle’s Nest and making us eat it, do you S my love?

So how is England anyhow?  Have you been to any druid sacrifices in scaled-down backyard versions of Stonehenge?  Do all the women have bullet-proof hair-do’s like Margaret Thatcher?  Sorry to hear about you and Adrian, but the moon in June is not a salmon’s taught belly is it?  So who’s Jack?  He was probably attracted after hearing of your acts of heroism on public transport.

But enough about you, how am I?  Not too bad, still eating too much but don’t worry, I won’t let this slide into a frightfully dull anorexic inventory of all the food I’ve eaten along with calorie counting tables.  I’ve dyed my hair black again only Ma & Pa think it’s a rinse.  I wear your hippy clothes all the time, and the underwear and make-up you left behind.  None of my friends say hello but I’ll pretend they do anyway.

Guess what? I’m working slowly on Mum and Dad to see if I can come over for Christmas if that’s ok with you.  But don’t write back to Mum and Dad saying, it’s ok because they don’t realise I’m working on them yet.  I’m a master of subtlety you know.

I’ve finally got a bank account – I’m all grown up.  Actually I only got it for the dole for which I have to wait another 9 weeks, but again, Dad doesn’t know so don’t say anything ok?

Oh, thank you for the hairs enclosed in your last letter, though I think it’s beginning to dawn on Mum that half the hairs around the house were mine.  Actually my hair’s starting to get long now, they stretch nearly 2 of the shower tiles.  Impressive eh?  Oh I’ve just had a really good idea, why don’t you suggest in your next letter that I come for Christmas?  That’s only if you don’t have any other plans or anything, I mean, don’t feel obligated.

So what do your do in your spare time, apart from gallantly saving the lives of strangers?  What is the night-life like?  I hope you’re not becoming a home-body, that would be very disappointing.  I mean do you go to homosexual disco’s and bogey to the dulcet tones of Depeche Mode and Erasure?  The nightclubs here are really fucked now, there’s so much violence, someone was stabbed at the X Club (I know it’s a dive, but still) and someone had stubby mashed in their face at the Tunnel (another dive).  Don’t worry I only go to nice places and on obscure nights so that the dickheads aren’t there.

I still haven’t got my Learner’s yet, I don’t think I ever will, though Mum keeps telling me to, so I can driver her around when she gets the other hip done.  God, see how disjointed my writing is? It’s terrible!

Friday, 14 June 1991  11:04pm

Hello again,

It’s Friday night and I’m quite bored so I thought,  “Maybe it’s S sending me trans-continental boredom vibes” So I thought I’d add to my letter.  You’ll notice I’ve enclosed one of your glow-in-the-dark stars.  Know why? Because I want you to stick it on your roof so that every night the last thing you see with be that star and you’ll think of me.  Aren’t I just too sweet?

Dad is to be receiving a great civic honour soon – he’s going to be the President of Lion’s of our great town, King of the Poo People!  Oh joy and happiness!  Oh uncontrollable spasmodic bursts of divine rapture!  I shouldn’t be so cynical, he’s probably quite pleased about the entire affair.  Mum’s gone out to dinner tonight with the girls from work.  I like that she works now and has friends.

Are there really lots of eccentrics in England? Do people really run about with feathers hanging out their noses wearing suits made of old rubber gloves singing God Save the Queen? Or are they just boring shits like in Australia?

How is your room coming along? Have you befriended any of the cockroaches? Are you allowed to have people stay in your room or is there some rabid catholic ex-nun running your part of the building who is employed as a moral watchdog, expelled from the convent as a result of the violence of passion aroused within her due to the rough texture of the hessian undergarments worn by nuns.

I’m so bored, it’s now 9 past midnight and Mum still isn’t home yet.  I’m afraid I must leave, it is late my love, and time waits for no bird in the hand.

Love J

 

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