Men with jowls don’t dance. 

Friday, 10 May 1996  8:35am

It’s a New Age for J, Sis.  I had a bit of a revelation last night.  I was shaving after a bath to soothe away the rigours of the day, and I noticed something in my face I’d never spied before.  I’m getting jowls.  I’ve put on weight, and I’m getting jowls.  They’re embryonic jowls to be sure, but the seed is sown.  I could lose some weight, and the shadow of the jowls would go, but when I’m older, and my skin loses its elasticity, they’ll be back.  I had never seen myself as a jowly kind of person before.  I couldn’t stop looking at them, just on either side of my goatee.  I thought, ‘J, it’s time to grow up.  Men with jowls aren’t slaves to fashion.  Men with jowls don’t dance (not that I do anyway).  Men with jowls have serious jobs, men with jowls don’t act like they’re still fifteen years old. Men with JOWLS are getting on with it, taking life seriously.’

So I reckon it might be time to calm down a little, Sis.  I reckon I might have to do something.  Lord knows I’ve been in this holding pattern long enough.  It’s time to get my savings back in order so I can get to university.  Do you know how embarrassing I find it not having gone to uni?  It’s the modern equivalent of not finishing school.  It’s time to stop behaving like a drama queen all day long, and it’s definitely time to stop getting wasted very Friday night and making an ass of myself in front of work colleagues.  Henceforth I’m gonna speak only when I’ve got something to say, and I’m not gonna clown around all day long at work – speak of the devil, here comes work now (it’s 9 o’clock).


Monday, 13 May 1996  8:21am

Got a haircut on Friday afternoon.  It’s all short now.  It’s pretty average to tell the truth.  And still I knew that when I saw Mum for Mother’s Day, she wouldn’t say ‘Ooh I like your hair like that,’ she’d say ‘Do you have to have those sideburns?’ or ‘Take those earrings out.’  And I was almost right.  Maybe she’s getting a little soft in her old age, but she said ‘Is it the fashion to have your sideburns that long now is it?’  I sighed, put on the bravado with a cocked eyebrow and said ‘I don’t follow fashion Ma, I make it.’  Even with a sour intro like that (is there any other with Mum really?), I did have a super time with her yesterday.  She drove to my place, had the obligatory instant coffee (I keep telling her that coffee factionlism in the language of the nouveau snobs, but she steadfastly sticks to her instant muck) and then we trammed it in to Flinders Lane to make a 1:30pm booking at Rosati’s, $35 a head.  Mum outshone herself on the tram, I coached her at the stop, told her how important it is to be public transport savvy, told her which ticket to ask for.

Rosati’s is this Italian sort of place just down the road with a lovely mosaic floor.  A bit of an echo chamber, but nice waiters, and plenty of food (five courses for heavens sake).  And we won this raffle thing they had.  As soon as they passed out the tickets, I knew we were gonna win something, so I pushed the tickets (F Blue 41 and F Blue 42) over to Mum and hissed ‘If we win, you’re going up for the prize, hear me?’ but Mum just swivelled ’round and watched the draw.  They got up to prize number 4 when they called out F Blue 42.  Of course it was my ticket now, wasn’t it?  ‘Go on, go up and get it J’ Mum chirped as I gulped and levered myself out of the chair, shuffling across the tiles to grab this enormous red box with a green ribbon on it.  I blushed furiously, I scurried back to my seat and put the box on the table, and Mum says loudly ‘Ooh look, what a lovely box!’  The woman was more excited about the bloody box than what was in it, even after we opened it. We won a coffee plunger and half a kilo of Moccopan coffee.  Mum took the plunger and gave me the coffee and then she fussed over the box until the bill came.

We left the restaurant after some diz-gusting almond/marzipan coffee biscuit things (I hate marizpan) which I would have fully spat out in less salubrious surroundings, out into the grey, gusty Melbourne Sunday.  Did a little window shopping (I bought Brady’s birthday prezzie and card) and then trammed back to my place.  Mum left almost straight away because she doesn’t like driving at night anymore.

I guess I oughta backtrack too.  I had a pretty damn good weekend now I think of it.  Friday – over to Josh’s in North Melbourne for under-grad pontificating.  Bit of fun anyhow, guzzled a few beers and taxied home.

Got up at 8 in the morning to go op-shopping in St Kilda.  Rode the bus to St Kilda with some grumpy driver who wouldn’t take the Aboriginal canvas I found in the bus shelter back to the depot (so I just left it on the bus, figured it would get to the depot anyway).  Nothing in any of the op-shops really.  Had fish ‘n chips on the beach, rugged up in my scarf and beanie, taunting the seagulls with odd chips.  Had coffee in a Greek cake shop to warm up and caught a bus home.

Nothing else to tell.





9 thoughts on “Men with jowls don’t dance. 

  1. Thank you so much for reading and commenting. It means the world to me that you can see his heart and humour. I am so grateful that people are slowly finding this blog and are enjoying it. Thank you.


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