DAY 56: Taking other ladies’ clothes

26 Oct

Goodbye, old friend.

THE Clothing Exchange promotes sustainable fashion, encouraging recycling, donating and buying clothing that are ethically produced. At their Federation Square clothes swap, ladies bring up to six garments and accessories, which are sorted and hung on rails. You’re given the same number of buttons in return as currency.

Esther calls me at the last minute with a spare ticket, so all I have to offer is my Deniliquin Ute Muster singlet. It’s blue with a comical bull’s face ironed on it. It’s tops.

When I hand it over to one of the volunteers she looks at me like she just knows I’m going to hone in on some Gucci suit, then holds it with outstretched arm to show a colleague. It’s eventually accepted after a certain amount of discussion, but really, I’ve never been so insulted in all my life.

The organisers are piping soothing music into the hall, so when it’s time to get foraging I’m expecting a squall. As it turns out, it’s all pretty civilised – although the rise in cortisol levels is palpable. And is that someone grunting? A current affairs program is filming proceedings, bullishly running over their allotted time as the gimlet-eyed host leads her burly bovver boys through the throng. I zero in on a Stussy v-neck. Outta the way, moll.

As the minutes tick by, I keep casting an anxious eye over at the Deni singlet. Nobody’s taken it yet. “You must be emotionally detached,” the Clothing Exchange website warned us of our donations, but seeing it neglected on the shelf, I feel the same way I did at school fetes when Mum’s wholemeal walnut loaf would be the only baked goods left standing at five o’clock; probably because the povo mums just sent along packets of Jammy Dodgers, which is unfair.

Finally, I run over and grab it, to a loud tut from Esther. But this was always going to happen – I can never emotionally detach from the misunderstood and maligned. And they just follow me around anyway.

Keeper? On a matey scale, I reckon.

DAY 55: Being a good neighbour

25 Oct

The country pile.

 

IT’S taken me a year to get my head around what it means to live in the country, other than a farking long commute.

Mine is a starter country town for city castaways, really — nothing hardcore — but still, there are certain laws one needs to adhere to.

* Your vehicle will be a ute
* Your ute will be white
* Your humour, black
* Your wheels will issue smoke
* Your youth will congregate outside the one fast food franchise in town (don’t piss ’em off — they all own guns)
* Your accent will be vowelly
* Your pubs will be shit, not rustic
* You will feel obliged to impart to treechangers the myriad ways in which you can murder a rabbit
* You will soon learn no one’s going to magically come along and mow your grass for you

For a year now, my grassy knoll has let the whole street down with its furry fringes and great yelps of shrubbery. To be fair, it seems to be a street of old dears who probably have strapping young grandsons to keep their lawns neatly manicured, but still, it’s time I did the neighbourly thing and kept up with appearances.

After some help from the local youths with getting my mower roaring, I tackle the jungle outside my house, swerving around bunches of orange and yellow blooms. Once shorn it looks slightly impotent, Samson style, but look — it’s the done thing, and I’ve done it.

On the way to work, I grab a bin bag and take the long route down the railway tracks, scooping up discarded meat trays and VB bottles. Verily, my halo is shining and I look like the local nutjob. Still, every town needs one.

Keeper? Better do.

Can't quite face the back garden yet.

DAY 54: Building a fire pit

24 Oct

The fire pit.

THIS magnificent fire pit stands in the centre of my former chicken coop (now an open plan rumpus room), which, the architect has assured me, will not catch fire, or fall down, despite the removal of a structural post. Looks good, huh?

It was a task fraught with danger: the mangy carpet in the chicken coop was the perfect hidey-hole for slumbering snakes, who get right arsey when awoken in spring, and a spider bit the architect on the finger.

Keeper? Yeah! Next up: LIGHTING the fire pit.

The fuel.

DAY 53: Learning to drive without bursting into flames

23 Oct

“I’M 35,” I confirm to instructor Rob, as he sizes me up in that inexpert way chaps have.

I run through the excuses for him: I was a passenger in a drink-driving crash; I moved to London for 13 years; I was drunk all the time; I was one of those people who “just shouldn’t drive”…

None of those apply anymore, which just leaves: “I’ve put it off for so long I’ll probably be really shit at it.”

At 17 and 4 months I was the sort of knockabout scallywag who’d put their hands over your eyes for a hoot when you were barrelling down the freeway, cider bottles rolling under your seat.

By 17 and 5 months I was dreaming of tree trunks crashing down from the sky, plummeting into crackling pits of fire, reaching out an arm for help, sickening crunching noises and darkly revving engines.

The net was cast wider during waking hours. I cringed when walking under scaffolding, expected a knife in my ribs from passers by, waited for someone to plant their hands in my back and shove me under a tube train. It’s safe to say I’d lost that dumb fearlessness teenagers are equipped with to get them through rote hi-jinks and humiliations.

Eighteen years on I was comfortable playing the leaden passenger, only weak pulses of electricity flickering through my slumbering frontal lobe. It was only when I realised this had become a metaphor for my life that I dreadingly, slowly, pulled that finger out.

“Shall I get in on that side?” I ask Rob reluctantly, nodding at the driver’s seat. I get the sort of response you’d expect from a condescending old bugger, but quickly we warm to each other. Whereas I’d feared my trouble would be driving with my foot on the brake till we both felt sick with a coat-hanger under my shirt, turns out my only problem is staying under the speed limit and not circling roundabouts with gay abandon — and Rob bloody loves it.

“It appears we had the same French teacher,” he says, as I relax so much I fail to notice the car in front of me is braking and I let rip with a few profanities.

Rob’s looking to buy a house in the area, so we go hooning around the neighbouring village checking out likely spots as he swoons over the scenery. We overtake the local steam train ad nauseum so that he can reminisce over his old days as a train driver, and choose whichever unidentified roads look more beautiful.

What a lovely day out, we both agree.

Keeper? Lemme attit!

DAY 52: Introducing conker fighting to Strayans

22 Oct

THIS is a noble British tradition that has been having children’s eyes out for centuries. I got Mum to send me a few deadly specimens without customs noticing.

Wow!

DAY 51: Starting a rabbit fanciers group

21 Oct

MEMBERS thus far: one. If I don’t stand myself up, our first meeting will include a vote on whether or not to petition The Daily Bunny for ignoring my submissions of Mr Thumpy…

Mr Thumpy.

Mr Thumpy.

Mr Thumpy.

Mr Thumpy.

in favour of the barely legal tail they’re currently toting.

How very predictable.

Keeper? You could start all manner of fool groups on that site!

DAY 50: Ogling workmen

20 Oct

Stuart is shifting soil from one pile to another.

THE first bloom of spring makes a city flush with short-lived friendliness, and I’m no exception. A good mood? Hellzapoppin’, let’s use this thing! Go go go!

It’s a fact that when one pulls on a fluoro vest, one effectively disappears. British photographer Stephen Gill created a series called ‘Invisible’ to bring to our attention the workmen and women under our noses who fade out of view. Stephen himself wears a fluoro jacket when taking pics, because that way nobody notices him angling his lens at them. Crims and stalkers, take note.

I reckon it’s time to give these heroes their moment in the sun, though. True, when I was younger our interaction would be limited to:

“Cheer up darling, it might never happen.”

“Fuck off.”

But that was in England, to be fair – the sun never shines there. So let’s let bygones be bygones.

Armed with my best “heyhowyagoin” and disarming smile, I approach Melbourne’s upkeepers of the Yakka – and god bless em, they all readily agree to pose without question.

Keeper? Yeah! Put me in a great mood, dunno about them. Note: try on PMT day?

Stan, doing the thing with the thing: "I'm KINDA working..."

Mick and Sam are cutting back a bit of lamp post that people keep tripping over. Mick booted Sam in the back: “She wants to take your picture."

Mark is protecting bystanders from flying concrete.

Peter the meter reader. "Do you want my phone number as well?" (x2)

DAY 49: Getting sautéed in a Japanese bath house

19 Oct

SCOURING the Sunday supplements for something to do this week, I read Kate Holden’s account of going to a Japanese bath house, where she registers with satisfaction: “pink, clean, clean, pink bodies”.

I see my first such specimen immediately upon entering the women’s changing rooms. Glowing pinkly from all four cheeks is a lady with just a hand towel a-top her head. Eagerly, I take off my own clothes and saunter about naked like I do this sort of thing every day.

Despite being all ready to go nude in front of the world, I have the bath and sauna to myself – which winds up being a relief, as I find myself struggling to breathe in the heat of both. I must be some excessive kind of wuss: I can’t stick more than two minutes in the sauna before my eyeballs steam up and my blood pressure goes through the roof. In the tub, I’m stewed to the gills, with my kidneys nicely browned on either side.

Then comes the shiatsu, administered upstairs once you’re safely robed up again. Pretty sure that’s a foot in my back, but I can’t be sure because there’s a towel over my face. Cunning. “There are two weird points on my body you’d better not touch,” I warn the practitioner as she turns me over – because I’m liable to fling a knee towards someone’s jaw if they go anywhere near them. Fortunately, this lady’s got a steady touch and navigates the Valentish escarpments without reefing us both.

Keeper? Might stick with a bog standard bath – bit cheaper.

DAY 48: Staring out to sea

18 Oct

IT’S weird staring out to sea when not cast adrift in some existential crisis. Right now I’m feeling well anchored (as opposed to wankered: see 2008), but I’m keen to practise my new mindful skills and see if I can do bugger all for half an hour.

While my mind goes a-wandering and dogs come a-sniffing, I’m still pleased I manage to stay put. I get uncomfortable flashbacks to Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, though, in which the protagonist sits by the sea one day and slowly loses her mind. I had to literally chuck the book away when I re-read it a month back, as though it was going to contaminate me this time ’round.

Keeper? Yes.

DAY 47: Learning to ACT

17 Oct

ACT stands for Acceptance and Commitment Therapy — except when it’ s applied to sportos and corporate types, when it suddenly becomes Acceptance and Commitment Training, because obviously people in those fields don’t need therapy. It updates the 7000-year-old practice of mindfulness with cognitive behavioural therapy exercises and other bits of Western psychology, and I’ve come along to a conference room in Melbourne with several hundred other curious characters to hear more about it.

ACT ties in with everything Hey Man, Now You’re Really Living is about: becoming more observant, present, grateful, fearless; developing a childlike curiosity and accepting the bits of the human condition — fear, depression, dread, pain — that we don’t like. It differentiates between our “observing self” and the “thinking self”. It’s the thinking self that has the mean streak, so ACT recommends you use your observing self — that’s who we’ve been from birth; call it your soul if you’re that way inclined —  to keep it in check.

As you might expect, there’s a fair bit of weird shit that goes on. Dr Russ Harris — who has variously been a doctor, a life coach, a therapist and a stand-up comedian — gets us each chewing a sultana for five minutes and gazing wonderingly at the back of our hands. Frequently I find myself succumbing to the usual thoughts I get when asked to listen for any length of time — one-track thoughts, with an R. Kelly soundtrack — but that’s okay. You just “thank your mind” for its diversion and drag yourself back to the here and now.

Unsurprisingly, there are acronyms and analogies aplenty to help us retain all this information. My favourite analogy: the observing self is the sky, while our thoughts and emotions are the weather. They’re transient, sometimes difficult, but will always change — and we need to go out and splash around outside regardless.

Keeper? D.E.F.O.

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