Saturday, 12 August 1995 11:55am
S,
Yeah, check that date – I’m in at work on a Saturday. And what a Saturday it is too, the mercury is set to soar to 17°, the sun is actually shining, and I’m here working. Mum’s coming in to meet me at 2pm, and after she jumps back in her horseless carriage and zooms back to “Poo Town”, I might take my “Who the Fuck Cares” proof and my Walkman and head over to the Treasury Gardens, lay on my full, round belly and bask in the warm glow of blazing Mr Sun as I tilt my head on my cupped hand, swat insects and kick my legs girlishly. Spring is sending emissaries of hope to us. Old Man Winter exits, stage left, on his walking frame, elbowed unceremoniously out of the limelight, you go Sister Spring.
Mum told me you’re back in hospital again. Dad did the same in grave, serious tones. Is it true they have to cut you every day? Get well soon Sis, you have to come over here in a few months and be dragged around the scenery of my letters, so I can point out the poorly constructed props – Collins Place, Stalag 45 (that’s what I’m calling work these days, and my home is now known as, my humble Video Store… Hopefully it will provide a little more substance to these whimsical missives that wing their way to you every week or so.
I chose to come in to work today because Simon is coming tomorrow. I figure it’s best to keep a little breathing space between us, you know how it is – I’m like ice-cream, delicious and sweet, but too much will make you puke. Plus I know Simon will want to listen to the footy on the radio tomorrow, and that combined with proof-reading (on my time) would drive me to violent crime, no doubt about it.
an hour or so later….
Did you realize that in three weeks I’ll be celebrating (?) 18 months of celibacy? (I’m so sick of that word now.) Drab and drear, how dull! HOW DULL! Ahhh, I’m used to it now, doesn’t even bother me anymore, and I’m not sure whether I should be comforted or disturbed by that. Too messy. I think of the beginnings and ends of relationships, and it’s too messy for a teutonic precisionist like me. Too many loose ends, exposed nerves. It’s not even worth whinging about really. I need to get out and soak up that sunshine, it’s calling to me, drawing me near on golden gossamer threads of aching languor (I’ve been possessed by Jane Austen!). Only 40 minutes ’til Mum arrives, only 40 minutes. Tic toc, tic, toc.
Maybe I should go for a tan this year. Can you see me as a Golden Boy of the Beaches? In 1950’s swimming trousers, like the ones they used to wear in “Flipper”, blue, low-slung shorts with a little white belt sort of thing. With a shock of tow hair, and not-quite-bronze skin sitting on white sands and squinting at my girl stretched supinely on her towel. Her name is Peggy May, and she wears polka dots. What the Hell and I writing about?
Tic, toc, tic toc. Thirty minutes says the clock.
What slaves we are to time. We live in seconds, rushing, rushing, rushing. My tram is 3 minutes late! Three whole minutes for god-sake. It must have been different before the advent of the wristwatch, yeah? Before clocks were everywhere. I’ve lost my watch, so I’m getting this fob watch that Mum gave me repaired. I don’t trust jewellers, so I brought it in to see if Mum can take it somewhere that she knows I won’t get ripped off. It’s a bit pompous – fob watches – but I can’t afford to buy a new one, and I hate wearing cheap, tacky watches, so the fob watch wins by default. Tic toc, tic toc.
Monday, 14 August 1995 2:55pm
Well, Mum was on time, we ate in deserted Collins Place. The sandwich girls were sweet to me which made the taut violin-strings of my soul zing with street (strangers being nice to me makes me very uncomfortable). Mum commented on how pretty one of them was, and how not many people could carry off a hair-do like that (she was bald). Mum and I shared a chocolate mud cake (very muddy indeed) and discussed work, university, the house and so on. She was quite receptive to the idea of Simon moving in. We browsed through the book store together, and then she was off, back to “Poo Town” with it clanking chains and wild gangs of baggy trousered youths prowling its inky black streets.
By the time I returned to work it was edging up to 3:30pm, the shadows were lengthening, and the sheen had gone out of the day. I stayed another hour or two then bundled the remaining proof up in my bag and set my sights for my humble Video Store. Got home too late to do my grocery shopping to I had to resort to a rice-pack and lay on my belly on the lounge room floor, “My Bloody Valentine” spinning dizzily on the CD player.
Spent Sunday in pre-emptive spring cleaning. Bathroom – from top to bottom. It was as nice a day as Saturday, so I hung my washing out on the line for the first time in months. Felt so invigorated by the silky sunshine on my back that I even chopped some wood. Can you see me swinging an axe, in a singlet of blue, “workin’ up a thirst”? Oh yes.
I must start studying my road rules again, I’m determined to get my licence by Christmas S, I must be mobile for next year, that’s when all my plans begin. Gotta be able to get to those night courses.
I can do this Sis.
J
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