Saturday 27 October 2007

Doing the Rounds

I know I’ve been quiet lately. I’ve been pretty under the weather all week. I took the day off on Wednesday to do some medical stuff. On Tuesday I managed to trap my fingers in a bin, punch myself in the face with my desk phone and spill the soil and water from a plant all over my desk, so I was probably due a sanity day. I spent it doing the rounds at various medical establishments.

First, I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned. It was my first visit to this dentist and I liked him. He said I take very good care of my teeth, and I know I do, but it’s always nice to hear from the professionals! Particularly as dentists always say stuff like “Oh my goodness, there’s so much crowding in here!” which is always humiliating. Actually, he did say that. But I talked over some options with him for braces, so I might be going ahead with that after Christmas, if there’s any money left after my trip to England.

It was good to hear that. I actually went to an orthodontist a few months ago. I decided that now I’m all grown up and earn money and stuff, I was finally going to do something about my teeth so that I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed about going to the dentist any more, and could smile like Burt Reynolds. It was a bit of a disaster. There was this ghastly woman; I’m not sure exactly what her job was; I don’t think she was the receptionist or a nurse. She seemed to run the place and even rule the orthodontist himself, on sheer willpower. ‘Publicist’ is the closest thing I could think of. She was all gushy and pushy, and whatever the orthodontist said – when he could get a word in – she repeated, only with three times as much force and gushiness.

The upshot of the visit was that I was going to have a couple of teeth knocked out in the bottom row then an operation to move my lower jaw forward after the braces. It would be great, she said. I could take my year’s holiday allowance from work and spend it recovering from this major jaw operation!

I backed slowly out of the office, smiling (with my hand covering my mouth, of course!) and never went back. I decided I would continue to live with my teeth the way they are. But the thing is, I felt a lot worse about them after I’d been to this orthodontist, having seen the very unflattering 3D pictures, heard the words ‘cross-bite’ and ‘overhang’ flying around over my head and the gushy woman going “I can’t believe you can even close your mouth with teeth like that!!” (I should point out that they’re not that bad. I mean, I’m not a freak or anything). There's nothing like the sound of a thoughtful "Hmmmmm" coming out of a dentist's mouth to make my spirits plummet.

This new dentist looked faintly surprised when I told him about the jaw operation thing, and said it was pretty old-fashioned to go around knocking teeth out and doing operations, not unless it was a really extreme case. So thank God for that!

On Wednesday I also went to the local clinic, finally, about my rash. But I got this weird guy who certainly didn’t look like a doctor, didn’t speak much English, and appears to have been told by someone that in the West, you don’t have to worry about etiquette – anything goes! I think he was trying to be cool. But he creeped me out and I felt distinctly embarrassed when he told me to take down my jeans. Then he told me he was referring me to a dermatologist, blah blah blah (indecipherable talking), which is great, because obviously I can take day after day off from work to hang around in doctors’ surgeries. Guess I’ll have to cure myself. Back to Google search!

Finally, I visited a physio who’d been recommended to me, but she turned out not to be a physio at all, but something a lot more hippy, and she referred me on to someone else. Sigh. The most notable thing about that visit is that I got lost on the way there and ended up in a mental hospital!

Friday 19 October 2007

Macquarie Park Shocking Centre

I’ve just got back from the odious pit of boganity that is the Macquarie Shopping Centre. It’s an artificially lit, subterranean nightmare of a place, so unsettlingly disordered, I imagine Satan couldn’t do better if he tried to recreate in Hell one of those horrifying labyrinths you get trapped in in nightmares. In addition, the people clutter up the escalators instead of standing on the left, and I just hate that!

Anyway, I’m extra pissed off with the place today. I was wandering around this lunchtime, wondering if I’d ever find the Post Office in time to queue for half an hour and get back to work before my lunchbreak ended, not quite at the tears of frustration phase, but you know, close, when this young woman standing next to a stall accosted me and asked me if I’d ever been to Israel. I said “What?”, all confused and distracted. She said, “I think we might have met before…I am Israeli. Have you been to Israel?” My heart sank as I was sucked into this horribly contrived conversation about where we might have met; I say contrived because I realized about three seconds in that it was simply a ruse to get me talking so that she could sell me something expensive that I didn’t want.

She asked me how long I’d been in Australia, was it because of A Man? – ooh, how lovely! – etc etc. Did I meet him here? No, in Saudi Arabia – oh my gosh, how exciting! And I’d never been to Israel? Why ever not? She hopes to visit Saudi Arabia sometime soon! (I’d love to see an Israeli Jew get a visa for that, ha ha ha – nice to see the Arab-Israeli conflict has left some minds unscathed). I was forced into this girly, mock-intimate chat about my life, even though I frankly find it boring to go over for the millionth time the very unremarkable story of how I came to Australia to someone who I know doesn’t give a shit anyway. I also find it rude and intrusive. And there was something kind of creepy about this girl.

So I should have walked away, but I always feel I have to maintain at least a pretence of politeness, even through gritted teeth. She ignored my plea of “I’m in a hurry. Could you tell me where the Post Office is?” and gushed “But first, I have something very special for you!” Defeated, I went over to her stall and underwent a hand scrub with some Dead Sea salt scrub. It was actually pretty nice.

Then she said “Come close, I am going to tell you a very special secret.” There was something a bit psycho about her, so I was almost intrigued. Giggling coyly, she whispered something about how when I’m in the shower with my boyfriend, ‘playing games’, (chess? Cluedo?) we can rub it on each other, especially our ‘intimate bits’. Apparently he’ll love it.

Now, maybe this is something that all the kids are up to these days. Maybe scrubbing your sensitive private areas with salt whilst frolicking in the shower is the latest In Thing. Maybe everyone’s doing it. But I can tell you I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable about receiving sex tips from a nastily ingratiating stranger, especially since it was taking so bloody long and all wanted to do was get to the Post Office before she decided she’d invested too much time and free samples on me to let me leave alive with wallet. It’s not a nice feeling, as you’ll know if you’ve ever been reluctantly sold at by a fake friendly person.

And she did indeed get rather shirty when I told her I wasn’t going to buy it. Apparently it was a special offer, half price at $75 for one day only, blah blah blah. I said I was saving like crazy for my trip to England (true) and she told me I should buy one for me and one for my mother for a Christmas present. I told her I didn’t get paid until tomorrow, so she said I should buy it on credit. Then she asked me if I have many nice cosmetics at home, and I said I love Lush. She said that Lush is so expensive, if I buy that, I should buy her stuff. I was beginning to think I could see flames in her eyes and could almost hear a chainsaw being revved up.

Fleetingly I considered giving in and buying some just to get her off my back and wipe the barely concealed fury off her face. I mean, how bad could it be? It was pretty nice stuff, and I could always try tackling the Man in the shower, salt scrub in one hand, chess set in the other , and rubbing him with it to see what happened (he’d probably recoil in terror, poor sweetie).

It would have been easy to give in, and I’ve always been a bit spineless where bullies are concerned. But I am getting a bit better these days, so I simply said I wasn’t going to buy anything really politely about thirty times and left. Of course if I were perfectly Karmically evolved I’d have refused to be drawn in right from the beginning, leaned in really close to her face and screamed, “I said WHERE’S THE POST OFFICE, BEEATCH?!!”, foam and spit splashing everywhere then gone up to her cosmetics stand and thrown it over. But you know, small steps.

My only consolation is that she looked pretty peeved. I hope she felt as annoyed as she looked!

Thursday 18 October 2007

Birds of the Eastern Suburbs and Their Calls (or Bastard Birds That Wake You Up in the Morning)

Yes, I live in the Eastern Suburbs, though I don’t own an SUV and I don’t dress half my age. I realize I’m compromising my anonymity somewhat by admitting where I live, but don’t come a-stalking. I’m a cop’s sister now, as my brother proudly called me in the middle of some quality sleep to inform me last night.

So, to the birds. It’s quite a cast of characters. Leading lights include:

1. Cockatoo
Call: ‘ARAAAAAARK! RAAARRRR! EOOORRRAAARRK!’

Not very pleasant first thing in the morning. Cockatoos for miles around home in on the large palm tree in my back yard. They love to peck at the trunk and pull it apart. On many a still summer’s day the silence has been broken by an abrupt thump as a large branch falls to the ground. If you step outside and look up, there is inevitably a cockie smirking back down at you with a distinctly challenging air.

A mutual friend tells me that our neighbour secretly hates our palm tree. He is terrified that it’s going to collapse one day, squashing his house and his yuppie renovations. But the cockatoos only peck at the loose bark, not the actual core of the tree. Maybe he thinks the entire trunk is riddled with cockatoo tunnels?

2. Alarm Clock Bird
Call: ‘Bip-bip. Bip-bip’.

Nowhere near as loud as the cockatoo, this bird is nevertheless just as annoying in its own subtle way. It wakes you up slowly, as you gradually become aware of a hotel alarm clock-style, insistent beeping in the distance. It is IMPOSSIBLE to have a nice, civilized lie-in with this bloody bird politely indicating it’s time to get up.

I’ve no idea what species this bird really is or what it looks like. I can’t help wondering if it’s a reincarnation of my grandma. She was incapable of letting people sleep in too. 7 am on a holiday and you’d be woken by the floorboards on the landing outside creaking cautiously and a quavering voice saying “errrrr…Sprite? It’s seven o’clock!” I would of course reply, “GRANDMA! I’m TRYING to SLEEP!” Grandma: “Oh, that’s ok, love! No need to get up.”

Further sleep would be an act of iron self-discipline, accompanied as it was by crashing pots and pans from the kitchen and hideously cheerful local radio turned up loud. Then, “Sprite? It’s just pipped eight.” “GRANDMA I DON’T CARE WHAT TIME IT IS! I’m TRYING to SLEEP!” “That’s all right, love, I’m just telling you so you know. You don’t have to get up.”

Poor grandma, I do miss her. Perhaps next time I’m tempted to hunt down Alarm Clock Bird at 6:15 am and smack it on the snooze button, I’ll think of her and forgive.


3. Minor Third Bird
Call: ‘TOOOOwit? TOOOOwit?’

This one woke me up this morning. I worked out the interval (a minor third) for old time’s sakes, just exercising my musical listening skills from the days when I used to take music exams. At the end, the examiner would make you sing notes and recognize chords played on the piano. It was called ‘aural tests’, and God, how I hated them. I don’t know what an augmented fifth sounds like and I never did. I used to get so confused when practicing that sometimes I couldn’t even distinguish between fifths and octaves. For anyone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, all you need to know is, that makes you look really, really stupid.

Minor thirds are quite interesting, actually. They can be heard all the time in folk music, at least in the West. It’s like, whenever people spontaneously compose tunes, they always seem to be in a minor key with minor thirds as a key feature. I’m talking about people who have no formal musical training – it seems to come naturally to people. Football chants too; they’re often built round a falling minor third. So I was intrigued to hear cheery little Minor Third Bird doing his thing. Could it all Mean Something? I’ll leave it to the experts to research. It all belongs to the murky world of the physics of music, I’m sure.

4. Rainbow Lorikeets
Call: ‘Squiggilit! Quiggle krrrrllll splitt!’ (or something like that. It is hard to transcribe bird sounds in English script.)

All very high pitched, like somebody washing windows enthusiastically. The Man has special penchant for these birds. He is happy to shoot out of bed in the middle of dream sleep as soon as he hears them trilling away outside, crying “The birds are waiting for me!” He runs outside in his sleepwear, doling out bread soaked with lavish spoonfuls of honey.

So last year we were pretty excited to see ‘The Parrots of Telegraph Hill’, a gorgeous film/documentary, very sweet, about an eccentric man who lived in a San Francisco park and basically befriended a flock of wild parrots. It certainly had a profound effect on the Man, who now fancies himself as the Sydney version, and I think he secretly hopes he will become famous and have a film made about him. Shortly after we saw the film he decided he wanted to name our lorikeet visitors. “Sprite, what shall I call this one?” He’d ask, nonchalantly. “How about you don’t bother?” I’d say, bundle of fun that I am. In the end, he seems to have lost interest in naming them and becoming an official eccentric bird man, as we only ever get two lorikeets feeding in our yard. They are an aggressive couple and won’t let any others come and share their honeyed treats, cruelly thwarting the Man’s dreams of stardom!

Wednesday 17 October 2007

The Countdown Begins

Finally, the election has been called. At last, I get to send my groovy PowerPoint invitation to everyone I’ve ever met, in order that they may admire my skills.

So now, the massive house clean begins. Both fridges have wet themselves in fear. (Or maybe because the Man accidentally turned one off overnight and I left the other freezer door ajar). Dove shit has been scraped off the floorboards, the wooden blinds have received their first wash since they ceased to be trees, and spider populations have been rehoused.

But there’s so much more to do! Here’s my rough working list:

1 Put sofa cover through the washing machine
2 Clean the toilet (after purchasing toilet cleaner. Our existing stuff is probably out of date by now)
3 Collect human hair balls from all corners of the house.
4 Vacuum and mop the floors.
5 Polish the kettle and toaster. I love that job. I love seeing the metal sparkle and shine, and I especially enjoy the fumes!
6 Have fight with the Man
7 Dust
8 Remind the Man that the ‘Good Housekeeping’ team are not expected to attend and do an inspection
9 Sweep deck
10 Have a HUGE fight with the Man
11 Clean the barbie – a job that probably involves cockroach killer/a professional pest control company
12 Put up fairy lights

So many things to do. If it were up to me I’d do the basics and then abandon the job on the basis of, it will be dark most of the time so the guests won’t notice the questionable hygiene of our abode. Unfortunately the Man can be a pedantic little monster when it comes to preparing for guests, and if I appear calmer than him he will get really pissed off.

By the way, in case you were wondering, the dove flew away a couple of weekends ago. We left the back doors wide open, and it sat in the pot plant for a while, looking vacant but obviously plotting, because suddenly it shot out in a flurry of beating wings. We last saw it hopping aimlessly about on a neighbour’s roof. I hope it’s having birdy fun, wherever it is.

I was a bit worried about the dove, because later that afternoon there was a minor hurricane and plague of giant moths. I was in the CBD at the time. The Telstra building was just coated in Bogong moths. It was so gross. Then the wind whipped up and I had to duck and dodge them as they shot through the air. Thank God the plague seems to be nearing the end, and we won’t have to suffer any more stupid ‘humorous’ comments from people going “You do know you can eat them, don’t you?” It was ok the first time, but there’s only so much girly giggling I can do without the aid of alcohol.

Suppose I’d better do some work now.

Friday 12 October 2007

Life in the Desert Kingdom

Lately I’ve been enjoying Daisy’s blog, Saudi Stepford Wife. Daisy is an American living in Saudi Arabia with her Saudi husband. I can’t remember now how I found her blog – probably in one of my stalker moods, looking for long-lost expat friends. As a former resident myself, I get a thrill reading about the daily goings-on of folks in the good ole KSA (Kingdom of Saudi Arabia).

Lately Daisy’s had this weirdo souring up her comments section. I suppose it’s inevitable when you blog from Saudi Arabia about Saudi Arabia, but it bothered me all Friday. I could understand it if she was bitching about the country (a favourite pastime of expats in the Kingdom) but this lady writes with such respect and affection for the country and its people. She describes herself as a feminist and certainly she comments on the not-so-good side of life there, and supports reform, but I honestly can’t see why any sane person would be driven to fevered ragings and throwing fatwas all over the place, not even hardcore religious conservatives. I guess the key word there is ‘sane’. Now if it was me, I’d be whingeing about the boredom, the lack of career opportunities, the way anything you ever want to do is always so bloody difficult over there, the insane laws, etc. But Daisy’s blog is upbeat, happy and dignified. I suspect she is a wiser woman than I will ever be.

By the way, if anyone’s interested in life as an expat in Saudi Arabia, I heartily recommend reading My Desert Kingdom by Jill Koolmees. (Though it seems to be out of print now so you’ll have to do a ridiculous amount of searching in secondhand bookshops and ebay to find it). I would be relieved if everyone would read this book before they are tempted to ask me, “Did you ever see anyone get their head chopped off? Did you have to live in a tent? Did you ride around on camels?” (Answers: no, no and no). Forget extreme accounts of royal harems, beheadings, floggings etc written by undercover journos – valid as these experiences may be for some people – this is a realistic account of the reality of life for the many ordinary westerners who go over there to work. That is not to say that her experiences were dull – far from it – but they were quite normal to someone who’s lived over there. I spent the entire book utterly absorbed, crying “I remember that!” and “The Khobar Barbershop singers! I’ve seen them in concert!” with indescribable joy.

I read it a few weeks ago now, but a few things especially stick in my mind. The author had just spent a difficult few months adjusting to her new life in to Saudi Arabia, yet when she returned to Melbourne for a short holiday, she felt restless and out-of-place, like she didn’t fit there any more. She found herself looking forward to returning to the Kingdom; her body was there in Melbourne but her mind wasn’t. I know that feeling, but I’ve never seen it described so eloquently before. However lonely and isolated I felt in Saudi Arabia (and I was so lonely at times I’d be embarrassed to tell you how much), when I went to England for holidays I couldn’t help wishing it was time to go back! (After I’d done all my shopping, I should clarify.) I felt like I didn’t belong there any more. The pace of life was all wrong. The accents sounded funny. I didn’t understand references to the latest in popular culture – and I didn’t care. I just wanted to get back to the quiet country where everything runs upside down, inside out. Guess that explains some things about me.

I also enjoyed the bit where she took a short trip to Dubai to visit friends from home. She recounts a conversation with them where she and her husband tried to tell them about some of Saudi Arabia’s weirder aspects. But to everything they said, the friends refused to believe them. “And the corruption is incredible! At every level!” Jill said.* The friends just countered that we in the West have corruption back home too. I can’t remember where the friends were from but I’m betting they were English. The English middle classes refuse to admit that England isn’t the lowliest country in the world – they think it makes them sound sophisticated. Anyway, my point is, the author encapsulated really well how difficult it is to try and explain Saudi Arabia to people who haven’t been there. You feel helpless to get your ideas and impressions across adequately.

One of Jill’s Australian friends (female) wrote to tell her she was stopping over in Riyadh on a short business trip. She suggested that Jill come over and stay for a couple of days and they could ‘paint the town red’. Hahahahahahahahaha! How I laughed. That is funny on so many levels.

So, clearly I loved the book. Have I lost you? I guess I’d better sign off now and enjoy my reminiscences alone!


*I'm just paraphrasing.

Tuesday 9 October 2007

In My Dreams

Last night I had an erotic dream about my boss (though we weren’t actually having sex, thank God). Doubly disturbing, this is the second time I’ve had an indecent dream about him. I'm feeling kind of grossed out.

Now I should clarify, my subconscious has good taste. My boss is actually quite a handsome man. I don’t use the word ‘handsome’ very often, but in his case it’s justified. And he always smells nice. I also like and respect him quite a lot, even though he’s a businessman and I can’t conceive why anyone would want to spend most of their life discussing figures and business deals and talking in stupid business jargon.

Anyway, just because he’s successful, wealthy and attractive with a good personality does not mean I want to dream erotically about him (I’m serious). We have a cordial but businesslike relationship – he’s my boss, for God’s sake – and I don’t want to even think about crossing that line, not even in the privacy of my mind. He’s too old for me! He’s married with children! He’s my boss! IT’S JUST WRONG! Yuck yuck yuck! Surely I should have a choice about who I fantasize about? I feel like my subconscious mind has just violated me!

I wish I knew what my mind is trying to tell me. Surely I don’t have a secret repressed crush on him. I don’t feel like I do. I mean, I’ve just happily admitted that he is an attractive man. So I’m not repressing anything. And I genuinely don’t want to imagine having sex with him, otherwise I’d have enjoyed the dream! What is going on?

Shudder.

Note: I was just checking the spelling and grammar of this post before publishing when he came up behind my desk to ask me something. Oops. Then I had to try really hard not to laugh.

Saturday 6 October 2007

Roamsome Dove Part III - Update

I got home from ballet class last night (hobbled home actually) to find the dove perching high up on the window ledge. Let me explain: We have full length windows at the back of the house. On top of the windows is a ledge, then from the ledge, more windows go up into a triangle, as our ceiling is not flat, it’s pointy. (I’m good at explaining house stuff, aren’t I? And I’m not even an estate agent.) Anyway, now that you’ve got a clear picture of where the dove was perching, you’ll appreciate that it must be making good progress in its flying skills. I just can’t get over how happy I am it didn’t die!

The Man and I are coming to the conclusion that our dove is a baby. It’s hard to tell with birds as the babies grow as big as their parents so quickly. But its wings seem a bit too short, so I guess its feathers haven’t grown to their full length yet. It could have been the runt of a litter that was taking its first flight, and that would explain why it was sitting in the road, unable to fly, while cats closed in on it.

Talking of cats – it’s taking me ever longer to get ready in the mornings. This morning I let the cat in, then shut it up in the front room with some food. It cried at the door for ages, but I’m not happy with the way it’s roaming free now that it’s baby bird season. So I ignored its plaintive cries, poor thing. Then, while the cat wailed, I let the bird out of its box and checked that it was happy and well fed. Meanwhile, cockatoos and parrots screeched outside, hoping for seed. It’s a wonder I get out of the house at all!

Thursday 4 October 2007

Fun on the Weekend

Now all the drama of the day is over, I am free to ruminate over the happenings of my action-packed weekend!

Highlights/lowlights include:

1. Endless football games on TV all Saturday

I think it might have been rugby, but what do I know. All I know is that The Man assured me they were all of vital significance in the nation’s sporting history, thus we had to have men running around chasing a ball across a field on our TV screen all day. I didn’t mind, though, because while the Man can be a little overbearing at times, sport on TV throws him into a trance during which I could get up to anything and he won’t notice. I took the opportunity to cook up a storm. I made a huge pan of vegetable soup, naan bread and banana muffins. This was accompanied by an inevitable giant mound of cleaning, the dark side of any baking endeavour. I was so exhausted by the end of the day I needed to be carried to bed by a buff young warrior*. (But I wasn’t – I had to hobble there myself).

2. Being chased round and round the car by a pelican

On Sunday, the Man and I drove down to Nowra and the surrounding area for the day, and had lots of tourist fun, including seeing a steam train. (We got out to watch it pass at a level crossing and its whistle nearly blew us away). On our way back we stopped for fish and chips.

This shop stands alone in a little car park, overlooking a stretch of water. I don’t know if it’s a river or something – I never notice stuff like that – it’s just water that isn’t the sea. The Man first took me there three years ago, when I’d first arrived in Australia. We bought fish and chips, then drove the car round to the car park at the back to eat them. Within minutes, the car was surrounded by a whole flock of seagulls, mostly airborne, and a hopeful looking pelican. Ours was the only car in the car park – can’t think why. We threw titbits out of the windows to our friends outside. I was terrified for most of the ordeal, especially when the pelican tried to poke its beak in through the open window! I wished that we had bought the birds some fresh fish, instead of feeding them greasy, deep fried fish and chips. I’ve been wishing that ever since, and finally on Sunday I got my wish.

So we bought a bag of chopped, raw fish along with our fish and chips, and drove to the car park behind the shop, just like last time. Once again, we drew a hungry crowd. The seagulls crapped all over our car and a mournful looking pelican tried to jack open the window with its beak. As I cowered inside, the Man told me he couldn’t believe what a wimp I was being, after I’d spent the afternoon excited about going there. Just to shut him up, I agreed to get out and feed them before they completely destroyed our vehicle. That’s when the pelican chased me round the car, screaming (me), its eyes rolling and lower beak billowing in the wind like a sinister pink balloon. I escaped by throwing the Man the bag of fish and jumping into the car. Scary.

3. Road and Supermarket Rage

The next day, I had my weekly driving lesson with my beloved. I was all happy and enthusiastic after last week’s lesson where I finally found some confidence. I couldn’t wait to drive aimlessly round and round my suburb again!

Everything was fine until about five minutes into my pointless, 15 kph circuits of our block. I got to this very narrow street to find a cyclist coming towards me. I freaked out a bit. The Man told me to pull further in to the left, but since I have no idea where the car ends, I didn’t, and ground to a stop instead. I reasoned that stopping might make me look like an idiot, but it was better than having to pay for street full of parked car doors to be repainted and I couldn't possibly injure the cyclist from a staionary position. The cyclist managed to get past me then hollered, “Move over, you cunt!”

Now, people don’t normally yell at me like that, so I was a bit shaken, but started driving again. The Man told me he agreed with the cyclist, and started lecturing me about my driving and telling how crap I was. My eyes started to fill with tears to the point that I realized I was even more of a danger to the public than I usually am behind the wheel, and I pulled over and started crying. Driving lesson over.

Is it actually acceptable to scream abusively at learner drivers for offenses such as driving slowly during off-peak traffic times? Or am I really such a bad driver? I don’t feel like learning to drive any more.

So then we went to Aldi. It was closing but I ducked inside, willing my face to stop being all blotchy from crying, because it’s embarrassing, and the Man waited for me in the front of the store. I was just paying for my bread when I heard this big, irrationally angry man shouting something at one of the assistants. The Man, who was standing about two metres away from the big, irrationally angry man (B.I.A.M.), told him in a mild voice that the shop had just closed, and that was why he couldn’t bring a trolley in.

“WAS I TALKING TO YOU?” yelled B.I.A.M.
“Give him a break” said my guy. “How would you like to work here?”
“I DON’T WANT TO WORK HERE!” said B.I.A.M., who evidently had a B.A. (Hons) in Missing the Point.
“They’re not letting anybody in.”
“I’M NOT JUST ANYBODY!! WHY DO YOU CARE? DO YOU KNOW HIM?”
“He’s my cousin” lied the Man, probably thinking how smart he was.
The store manager asked B.I.A.M. to leave, and he did (taking his child in its push chair with him) bellowing “LET’S TAKE THIS OUTSIDE!” To my relief, the Man ignored him and stayed in the shop, while I glanced at my change and wondered if I’d deliberately been short changed. I’m sure I gave the assistant a $20, not a $10. I’d had enough fights for one day so I let it go.

So we went home, both feeling chagrined and brought down a peg or two. The Man was seething, as I knew he would be, and grumbled that if he wasn’t short and lightly-built, the B.I.A.M. wouldn’t have dared talk back to him, and how he wished he could morph into a seven foot Maori at will and pulverise people. He always gets like this when he’s been in an altercation. You can see where the market is for all those movies were the nerd unexpectedly turns into super-hero and has vengeance on anyone who ever bullied him.

I know it’s mean but I was glad The Man got yelled at too. So now we were even. And in between fantasies in which I reversed over the cyclist, shrieking “I’m an incompetent learner driver in possession of a powerful car, so don’t piss me off!** Ahahahaha!!!!”, I reflected that it’s important not to lose your temper with people because it might upset them more than you envisioned.


*My taste in trashy romances has overcome me once again.

**It does surprise me how willing people are to honk and shout abuse at learner drivers. Don’t they know how much danger they are in? Do they not understand I only have a thin grasp of which is the brake pedal and which is the accelerator? Has it not occurred to them their vehicle/body only remains intact by virtue of my 100% concentration on the job? ‘L’ does not stand for ‘Victim’. It stand for ‘may accidentally maim you or total your car due to inexperience and incompetence. So watch the fuck out.’

Wednesday 3 October 2007

A Visit from the PM

I’m exhausted already. It’s taken me two hours to get to work. I got into the city and realized I’d forgotten my security pass. So I had to go back home to get it. And it’s such a hot day!

It’s a good job I did go back for it. Today the PM is visiting our humble premises to schmooze with the execs and kiss babies that will doubtless be borrowed from the childcare centre. I had to check my bag when I arrived to make sure the man hadn’t secreted some remotely-detonating TNT in it. I mean, I know he loves me and all that but I’m not sure he would sacrifice me for The Cause.

There are some demonstrators out on the street outside my window. Everyone in the office came over to this side of the building to peer out at them. This big, rather uncouth guy said ‘they’ should put the water cannon on them and blow them all away. It’s funny how much anger there is against dissenters. I wonder if I’d feel the same way if people were protesting against a government I supported. I don’t think so. I mean, the demonstrators outside our office are pretty harmless looking people. And surely, anyone who supports John Howard does so on the basis of greed (‘it’s the Economy, stoopid’) rather than any actual principles, so it’s hard to understand why they get so irate at the opposition.

It doesn’t look like I’ll actually get to see the PM. We plebs have to watch the event broadcast internally on the TVs in the building. It’s a shame because I brought my camera. The Man wants me to do a humorous photo-story for our election party.