Month: March 2012

I am the Knight.

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I can do the Damsel-in-Distress thing. I’ll happily let any man, woman or dog help me out of a bind. Sometimes I even forget my lofty feminist ideals and get men to carry my groceries for me. Or just carry me, especially if it’s a steep hill.

My preffered role, however, comes with a cape and a breastplate. I do the Knight-in-Shining-Armour caper brilliantly. Brilliantly, but not modestly, it seems.

I think this comes from the two-older-brothers-and-no-sisters dynamic. It didn’t matter if Rob and Nick were practising their target shooting, mowing lawns, fishing, four-wheel driving or sneaking a packet of salt and vinegars out of the cupboard. I wanted in. Bugger being a girl, I can hit a six into the chook house and throw stones at goannas. (Please note, I do not recommend throwing stones at goannas. They are savage beasts.)

Take tonight, for instance. I’m sitting at home pigging out on a salad. That’s right, a big, healthy, nutritious salad. Then, the bat-phone vibrates silently on the kitchen table. There is an Emergency. It’s understated, but urgent. And I am the first Superhero to be called.

Sophie has left her lights on, bless her, and is stuck at the train station in the rain with a flat battery. What a sucker!

My switch from post-work-wind-down mode to full-cape-and-jumper-leads was instantaneous. I was sitting in the peak-hour traffic going nowhere within minutes.

To the other side of town I flew, in my suped-charged Camry. It’s an extraordinary car for jump starting. Actually, I think it’s the first time it has been doing the jumping instead of being jumped, but that’s a different story and features mechanical terms which turn me into a Damsel.

At the scene I was straight to work, peering closely at the frigging battery and wondering which was negative and which was positive. The lack of clear markings was a severe hindrance to an otherwise remarkable jump start. Engines purred. Mine shuddered, actually, but let’s not get bogged down with trivia.

It was unfortunate, really, when the jumper leads had to go back in the boot and I had to remove my cape and armour.

I will say that Sophie was an excellent Damsel. How lovely of her to let me be the Knight, even if it was just for the night. Ha!

Silly point.

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I’m sitting in the Southern Upper at the Gabba devouring a barbeque chicken with Shorn Lowry. We both freely admit that we are more excited about feasting on the bird than the cricket. Warner hits a belter, straight to the boundary, but I’m more interested in my drumstick.

The first of the One Day finals, Australia versus Sri Lanka, was a ripper match. It had everything; impressive one-handed catches on the boundary; balls smashed out of the ground for six; rowdy Sri Lankan supporters; a jump-out-of-your-seat finish; and, of course, beachballs.

There’s no need to stop reading if you’re unfamilair with cricket and perhaps missed out on the six-and-out, one-hand-one-bounce fun we had as kids. This is more a post about the off-field shenanigans. For me, the crowd’s antics are the sole reason to hoof it to the stadium. Let’s face it, you do get a better view on the telly.

The atmosphere though, is where it’s at.

I’ve never seen more Sri Lankan flags flapping and Sri Lankan people chanting. They have a pretty imposing flag, too, with the reds and oranges and a big bloody Lion staring at you. The commotion the away-fans created tonight was reminiscent of someone giving birth. There were drums, tambourines, hand-painted signs. A cannon, even. In my opinion the ruckus surpassed the Swarmy Army and the Barmy Army. Only South American soccer fans have showed me more enthusiasm.

For the home team, the local lads often provide a bit of an ambience.

The guy behind me, for instance, insisted on commentating the entire match. “That’s wide,” he’d say, very laconically. Or “that’s a four.” The match did include several fours and wides, but never when he called them. He was determined to give me a bum steer. I’m not sure if he was trying to trick me, but I was decidedly confused about the match whenever I tuned into his observations.

In fact, I spent much of the game confusedly trying to understand the field placings.

I successfully used the phrase “that was a good cover drive,” in context early on in the match and fancied myself a cricket buff. I was determined to know more so I could one day trade the grandstand for the plush commentary booth. With Lowry’s assistance I managed to lock down Off Stump and Leg Stump. Long On and Long Off followed relatively easily.

Mid Wicket and Square Leg is where it all started going wrong. They are in exactly the same place.

But it did not stop there. “What’s the difference between Fine Leg and Deep Backwards Square,” I demand of Lowry, “they’re the bloody same thing.”

“About 20 metres,” he answers, a smug grin on his face. He loves knowing about these things.

After half an hour’s extra tuition, I think I’ve got it. I can name almost all of the cricketers and their possies. I even know their numbers.

Without warning, however, the batsman changes and it all goes awry. Left-handedness and right-handedness have never created such crucial changes. Except maybe in golf.

Fine Leg, or was it Deep Backward Square, is now the Third Man and there’s another dude up near the First Slip.

“Who’s that,” I ask. “Oh dear. It’s a new one.” Lowry puts his head in his hands. “That’s the Gully,” he tells me, a note of resignation in his voice.

I do the maths and there’s still about two hours left before we’ll be clinging to the edge of our seats. I change tactics.

Despite my obviously inferior cricket knowledge, Shorn Lowry, did not mind making a few bets with me.

We wagered icecreams on how high Australia’s tally would be. The drumsticks were my shout.

Then we bet on when the game would finish. I owe Lowry a bloody dinner for that one.

Just for good measure I decided to back Sri Lanka. They were down and out for a while, but teased me with a come-back and hit some brilliant runs. Ultimately, however, I’ve also been charged with mowing the lawn this week.

Really, I’m lucky to get away without owing an oven clean and a car wash.

A big shout out to Amber for the tickets. Thank you!

Photo from ESPN Cricinfo

Down the rabbit hole, I go.

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My Disney education is sorely lacking.

I have worn my cultural dearth as a badge of pride for years. It’s good fun to watch people screw up their face, incredulous, as I tell them I have not seen the Lion King. Or Alice in Wonderland. Or Mary Poppins. Even Grease alluded me as a child.

I like to say I was outside playing. Eating worms, is the more likely story. Or building dams in the gutter with my brothers.

Sitting inside with the telly on just didn’t cut it when there was exploring to be done. I like to think that’s the reason. It’s not because we were too busy watching obscure documentaries and the ABC News at 7. Surely not.

What surprises me is how impervious these cult films are in our culture. For example, I was introduced to Star Wars last year. For 23 years I went without seeing those epics. Then, I was convinced to trudge through the entire six episodes. It is six, right? And I enjoyed the films immensely. But I knew half of the characters before the DVD had started playing.

I was petrified of Darth Vader during my childhood, without ever being confronted by him. As an adult he was still truly terrifying.

Luke Skywalker; he was like an old family friend who moved to Romania.

May the force be with you; I’d been saying that for years, like some fool blindly guessing what the context was.

Alice in Wonderland has caused quite the stir, too. Today, after a blissful morning at the markets, Shorn Lowry, his hot girlfriend, and I were taking a rather long stroll home. So long, in fact, we had to stop at a boutique brewhouse to quench our thirsts.

Over a pale ale and a dark lager my cultural ineptidue, and Alice, dogged me again.

“How could it have happened,” Shorn and the hot girlfriend wonder, about me missing Alice jump down the rabbit hole.

“I was playing outside,” I smugly reply.

Shorn is not having a bar of it. “We’re going to watch it this afternoon,” he says. “You just have to.”

But then, we all wonder whether the film will have the same impact on me as an adult as it did on all my peers who got in on the action as kids. Will I enjoy the Alice adventure? Or have they romanticised these fairytales amongst memories of their own awesome childhoods?

We decide on the Johnny Depp version – for obvious reasons.

Once again I note how many of the themes in the movies I already know well; the White Princess; the Hatter; a few spoonfuls of Wishful Thinking; the rabbit hole; and, of course, Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

But then there are some delightful moments of genius that blow me away. I won’t spoil it for anyone else who is yet to broaden their sphere to include the delightful children’s movie. Actually, I wouldn’t want to be showing that film to the young-uns at all, it is bloody scary in parts.

I will say this, however, Alice in Wonderland is as much for children as adults. The film’s beauty is tied to the edifying themes which are relevant regardless of age. What a delight for me to just be finding the story now. And, best of all, I’m so behind the times that there’s plenty more goodness where this came from.

It’s never to late to jump down the rabbit hole.

Can I interest you in a bum steer?

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I donned my pretty dress and pearl earrings. I splashed on some mascara and chucked on a pair of thongs – you never want to look like you’re trying too hard – and caught the bus into the city. A trip into town is almost a glamour adventure for a girl that works in the suburbs.

The $5.20 one-way bus fare was a bit steep, I thought. But that’s how it is in the Big City.

Not to be waylaid by the delightful pie shop and other Big City treats, I headed straight to the visa office. I walked in the door of the Chinese conslate with confidence. The man at the door took one look at me and a juicy grin emerged from his bushy beard.

“You look happy today,” the security guard says. “But I’ve got bad news for you,” he adds, clearly delighted with himself and his bad news.

The consulate is not the visa office, I soon find out. This guy reckons he’s already told about 30 people that this morning. He’s not bothered in the slightest. Clearly, watching all these people get it so wrong is good fun for Mr Security Guard.

As he pulls out the mud map of where the actual visa office is, he indulges in a few stories. One sucker, he tells me, came in looking for a visa. The guy was from Adelaide and “he thought he’d just get it done while he was here in Brisbane.”

“I told him, mate you’re going to have to go back to Adelaide. They don’t do them here.”

“And they don’t even have a visa office OR a consulate in Adelaide.” He is almost rolling on the floor in rapture at his own wit. Am I really at a consulate, I begin to wonder. I’ll admit, it’s a great yarn and a great attitude to the constant barrage of visa queries this guy must face. I wonder what the guy from Adelaide thought?

The joke reminded me of a similar piece of mischief I indulged in a few weeks ago at my brother’s engagement party.

I was dutifully preparing lunch for the whole crew. I had eight chicken and salad wraps layed out on the bench and I was feeling just  a little too virtuous. Always dangerous for me, feeling too virtuous. So I chopped up a few hot chillis and distributed them amongst the wraps, giving a few of them that extra bit of spice. “That should liven things up,” I thought and rubbed my hands together, just like Mr Burns would.

The wraps were divvied and the crew thanked me profusely. “No worries guys, it’s my pleasure.”

Oh and it was such a pleasure to watch the entire party struggle through their lunch. One poor bloke had to lean up against the fence for a good few minutes to get the feeling back in his tongue. Another emerged from the house spluttering and complaining about his lips. They were on fire.

“Geez, you really did a number on us there, Pen,” my dad commented, his voice reeking of pride. Even as he reached for the milk, I could just tell Dad was revelling in the trick.

“You’re a legend, Pen,” he would have said, if he had any feeling left in his mouth.

It was a fine moment, but not because of my lousy trick and everyone losing their sense of taste for the rest of the weekend. They appreciated the gesture of my practical joke. That I had somehow made lunch time interesting. How thoughtful of me!

It’s just like the man at the consulate who found a funny side to his job. His enthusiasm brightened my day.

More jokes are needed, I say.

Let’s bring back the whooppee cushion. Spend less time on sports and other sideline pusuits, such as work. Our creativity should be put to use thinking up good tricks.

It cannot possibly be the weekend yet! Oh yeah, it can. And it is.

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Flatmate number one is off on a beach trip. Flatmate number two, Shorn Lowry, is probably escorting his hot girlfriend to a triathlon or saving the world from people who dump old furniture in parks. I think my parents are probably off on a winery tour. My brother is hanging with his hot girlfriend. Cooking her a nice juicy rib fillet, I reckon.

And me? No plans.

Maybe I’ll do some exercising; like a light walk or some stretching, which is barely exercising at all. I could pack some of my favourite possessions into boxes. Or annoy the neighbours with some sax practice.

Nothing too illuminating there.

A completely free weekend is a rare occurance for a single gal. I’m not bragging here. Keeping busy and social is at the heart of my pursuit of happiness. But, a free weekend, that’s liberating and almost a treat.

There it is, stretching in front of me like an afternoon without snacks after a light lunch. How liberating.

We were contemplating this tonight and then Shorn Lowry puts the unasked question, the one I was avoiding, on the table. “Will you have many free weekends when you’re in Charleville,” he muses. “Like not at first, but after you’ve checked out the place and done all the touristy things?”

I’m stumped. My impending move to Outback Queensland excites me. It’s keeping me in a heady state of anticipation. Life will change dramatically. That’s the point! And I’m not one to get too bogged down with realistic thinking. “You’ve got to get your head out of the clouds,” I can hear my mum telling me, totally exasperated.

“I don’t want to. I like it up here,” I reply in a tone of voice that demonstrates my place in the family: youngest and the only daughter. Ha. Take that!

But there’s that niggly voice, it’s bloody Shorn Lowry – will I be lost without the crazy schedule of coffee dates, drinks, lunches, dinner parties? Gosh, I spend a lot of time eating; maybe I will be thin when I’m in Charleville. Or i’ll just eat alone. Is that sadder than drinking alone? I’ll let you know.

Or I’ll rock it.

All I need is a goal, or a few goals. Here they are: I will create a bountiful garden to tend to on weekends, and probably weekdays too, as is the needy nature of gardens; I’ll join the local netball club, the Yabbie Racing Society and probably the local theatre company; I will learn to paint and to speak another language; I will get to know the local pubs and their inhabitants, maybe I will even get to hang my hat above the bar one day – that’d be a coup; and, above all, I will learn to spend a weekend alone and happy.

Now, for this weekend’s goal. Maybe I’ll sort out my underwear draw and clean out the pantry. Or not. Maybe I could just chill and revel in my liberty. Even, heaven forbid, enjoy it.

Because, the schedule is not going to be empty forever. Next weekend I’ll have that garage sale, and I’ll keep the old green chair, mum. I promise.