Thursday, 17 August 1995 9:07am
Geez, it’s been busy here, we’ve only got ’til Monday until the final “Who The Fuck Cares” proof comes out. And I’ve been stressed to death trying to work up the gumption to ask for a raise. It’s so difficult, how do you do it? Do you have a particular mantra that you intone in an undertone as you march up to The Man and say “Pay me what I’m worth!” Well, I went up and asked for a meeting, and I was told that it was too busy right now, and that maybe we’d squeeze it in on Friday, Monday at the latest. This is good, because it means that I’ll just get a call to come up, and I won’t have time to work my nervousness up into a frenzy of trembling and twitching like some reluctant steeple-chaser hesitating at the Grand National. I hope I fare a little better than those poor schmucks of horses though, I don’t wanna have my brains blasted out on the track as I list on my side, broken fetlocks slashing the air.
There was a snap tram strike last night. I had to catch a train home. I haven’t done that for ages, and with good reason. With both the “Tribes of Tram” and “Tribes of Train” squeezing into three carriages on the Upfield Line last night, it was a trial of the claustrophobic kind. I slinked to Flinders Street Station, thinking that by boarding at the first stop, I would be sure to get a seat and be able to enjoy my Herman Hesse in the sneering luxury of seated repose. This was not to be, sadly. The train was full to bursting by the second stop, so crowded that I couldn’t even read, and had to endure some woman’s dusty coat rubbing up against my contact shy person with every jolt and heave of the swaying, over-pregnant silver worm threading its way through suburbia. Even my feet felt crowded. Seven different smells jostled virulently for my attention, someone’s fish and chips winning out in the end. I was eventually spat out at my stop, Flemington Bridge, and wiped my sweat-glistening eyebrows and opened myself up to the cool breeze steadily moving down Mt Alexander Road. Thankfully the trams were back on again this morning.
Friday, 18 August 1995 9:09am
9am and I’m already in a bad mood Sis. Some tart on the tram with over-sized sunglasses wouldn’t uncross her legs, and kept bumping me with her tacky boot, so I had to squeeze my legs to one side like a polio victim ‘ til she got off at Museum Station. SLAG!
I feel better now.
Another lovely day here, just right actually. Sunny and cool. Went to the Treasury Gardens with Donna (another editor) and read this week’s Who magazine (great gossip) and feasted on succulent mandarins, the sunlight glowing red and warm through my closed eyelids. I am seriously thinking of going for a tan this year, it’d be a change at least. I’ll see if I can manage it by the time you arrive.
Same day, 1:35pm
I wonder if I’ll get called up for my meeting today. Probably not. I bet they’ve forgotten about it, and I’ll have to bring it up myself. The waiting game….
Friday drinks tonight. Don’t feel like a big booze-up really. I’m on a budget anyway, I have this enormous phone bill, so I think I’ll sip two beers for the sake of form and then scoot home. It’s too nice a day to get blotto. I feel too young and fresh today to slouch in some metal chair at the bar and be snide and bitchy like every other Friday night. I feel like doing something ridiculous. The afternoon in the park has reacquainted me with grass, silly as that sounds. It’s funny how just sitting on grass can make you all nostalgic for childhood. I can’t remember the last time I sat on the grass. I stay indoors weekdays and weekends, even my backyard is concrete. I feel like a prisoner of urban sterility. I dunno, I guess I’m just in a funny mood.
Sketch by J, he did in margins of this letter to me.