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DAY 45: Buying and using tools

IN any given situation, my attitude is usually to leave it to the professionals, even if they’re professional arseclowns.

“You can’t do that” is my default setting. Sounds a bit like: “Computer says no.”

Someone’s got to do it, though. I mean, whose idea was it to move alone to the country? What made me think I’d be able to carry out even the most basic maintenance without any kind of gumption, the obligatory white ute and a driver’s licence to go with it?

But it’s getting embarrassing constantly ringing able country folk for help whenever I need a ladder, a branch grows too long or something falls off something else. Fuck this shit – I’m getting me some tools.

My first task is to build a picture frame. Really, this involves sawing two pieces of wood to approximately the same length and then stapling the picture between them. Target’s probably not the ideal place to be buying heavy artillery tools, but I pick out what I need after an emergency phone call to my most capable friend, who I’m secretly hoping will step in and offer to do it himself.

I immediately saw myself getting the saw into the bag, and I have to go back for safety goggles and staplers for the staple gun (kapow!), but then I’m all set.

“Oh my god, is someone going to supervise?” Natalie cries, back at the office.

“I knew that would happen,” mutters Ben, as I dab at my bloody hand.

Back at the country abode, I have a bit of a tizzy when I discover the pilot light’s blown out, a storm is a-gusting, and I don’t have any nails from which to hang my new work of art, let alone a hammer to bang them in. “You c%#& of a town!” I’m afraid I scream.

Keeper? Since my school FAILED to teach me the rudiments of DIY, I think I’d better enrol in some one-day course for numnuts.

I painted that wall as well.

Categories manly skills

DAY 44: Getting critiqued on a poetry website

14 Oct

I'm not saying I'm like Dorothy Parker; I'm saying I like her lamp.

I WONDER what it’s like having people critique your lyrics. I bet it’s not very nice, is it? I vow to set myself up for a taste of that medicine by sending my own poetic meanderings to a messageboard dedicated to verse and feedback.

I decide to submit ‘Firewater’ and ‘Taillights’ (with apologies to Buffalo Tom’s ‘Taillights Fade’), two songs I wrote in my early twenties. It’s tragic the other poets won’t be able to hear the heartrending melodies, but what can you do?

At first I register under what I reckon what would be a suitably ‘poetic’ name, Remorticia. Then I tell myself not to be such a fucking arse and change it to my actual name. I mean, choosing the former’s like reading someone’s horoscope out in a mystical voice and waving your fingers around, isn’t it? Just don’t do it.

Now, where to post. ‘The Sadness’ is a thread of “heartache, lost loves, suffering and pain. (Please post poems about suicide and death in The Tragedy)”. So ‘Firewater’ can go there.

‘The Tragedy’ is “downfalls, sorrowful conclusions, death, misfortunes and world tragedies”. So we’ll send ‘Taillights’ there.

“Very smoothe write I loved reading it. You are a great writer :)” is the first comment under ‘Firewater’. So evidently even if English isn’t your first language, my words resonate powerfully.

“Deeply written, great job,” comes another, temporarily satisfying my constant need for approval.

‘Taillights’, meanwhile, isn’t faring so well. “You know, if I over-thought things,” begins one critic with 8142 comments under her belt on a poetry forum, “mneh mneh mneh mneh.” Or words to that effect.

I can’t resist a snarky comeback, then immediately realise I may have taken it the wrong way. And at least she hasn’t given me 2.5 stars and a patronising slap on the arse in a national magazine.

Keeper? Might be a useful exercise in avoiding passive aggressive outbursts.

Comments 1 Comment
Categories desk slave day

DAY 43: Making a gnome run

13 Oct

UNDER the cloak of darkness, my cohort and I dispatch 20 gnomes outside Armadale Station. You may think such tomfoolery does not qualify as personal development, but I’m hoping the mysterious appearance of the gnomes overnight will surprise and delight; providing an interesting centrepiece for commuter conversation; enriching mornings… making the pages of mX!

And while our gnome run has all the sophistication of a Year 12 art project (my actual Year 12 art project involved taking black and white photographs of severed pigs’ heads), Esther has never experienced a Year 12 art project herself, so I reckon she’s getting HEAPS out of this.

Keeper? Yes!

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Categories idiocy

DAY 41: Private entry

11 Oct

Nothing to see here

Categories Uncategorized

DAY 40: Examining Perth’s penal system

10 Oct

LAST time I came to Perth I had to completely deviate from my path when I spotted some strapping plainclothes cops with guns stuck into their jeans and was moved to trail them.

This time ’round, the evening news is filled with footage of strapping cops mercilessly tasering a remand prisoner 13 times as he writhes on the floor. Another bubble burst, eh?

I decide to pay the old Fremantle Prison a visit for a taste of penal history stretching from 1855 to 1991. And it seems precious little changed in that period, if our authentically dead-behind-the-eyes tour guide is to be believed. He repeats bad jokes about death row, hangings and floggings till we ‘get them’ – that is, we laugh politely. Talk about gallows humour.

Keeper: Will do the tunnel tour next time.

Cell art. I can hear the waves crashing.

Categories tourist

DAY 39: Swimming in the Indian Ocean… with dolphins

9 Oct

WE landlubbing layabouts barely have time to panic about the idea of breathing through a snorkel, before the Rockingham Wild Encounters boat screeches to a halt and we’re urged: “Go go go!”

“Mnf!” I exclaim through my snorkel as we’re swiftly surrounded by six female bottle-nosed dolphins. “Fngh!”

For the next hour, as we cling onto each other’s belts and gawk, these girls tumble over, skim past our noses like bullets, swoop at us from below and arc through the air in twos and threes. At one point they all stop and lurk at the bottom and I’m convinced they’re plotting an attack – just for a larf – but dolphin dude Justin assures me dolphins are too busy thinking about rooting to think about attacking.

After a mere hour of living out our long-held dreams, pretty much everyone’s ready to pack it in – this ocean’s a bit nippy, as it turns out. As I climb back up onto the deck, my wetsuit puffs out with seawater like a Goodyear blimp and my arse won’t stop shaking. Where are the sandwiches?

“We can’t beat ’em off with a stick,” our skipper says admiringly, as the dolphins swim right up to the steps of the boat and eye us beadily. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?” they seem to be saying – as well they might.

Keeper: At $200, I might just have to treasure the memory.

Categories creatures

DAY 38: Swimming in the Indian Ocean… in my undies

8 Oct

“HERE we go … here we go … Swimming in my underwear” is the actual running commentary in my head as I breaststroke sedately forth at Freo’s South Beach. It’s a hot day, the water’s clear, and my brassiere is filling up with seawater.

I should point out here that I’ve come here alone… so that’s fairly daring, huh? Especially for an English – born into scratchy cardigans, eczema, adenoids and woollen tights. And I have no towel! How do you like them apples?

After I have pulled my dress back on, I bounce through Freo feeling liberated. The dress is way shorter than I would wear in Melbourne, but as it gets blown around the tops of my thighs and men grin at me, I start feeling like I’m the shit. I’d feel like this all the time if I lived in Perth, and I’d be able to wear pink lipstick and jewellery made out of shells, because I’d live by the sea. I’d feel like the shit and everyone would love it.

“Excuse me, but your dress is caught up at the back,” a nice lady with a pushchair whispers as I bend over in the markets. She sidles off apologetically. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

Keeper? No one shouted out: “Pardon me young lady, you do realise that’s your underwear?” so I think I got away with that bit.

Categories idiocy

DAY 37: Learning about bees

7 Oct

I’VE never been the sort to run shrieking from bees while flapping my arms, but still I’m quite glad this glass is between us. Rupert at the House of Honey in WA’s Swan Valley won his first award for beekeeping aged eight after pestering the local World War I veteran/bee enthusiast to teach him everything he knew.

My abridged knowledge is limited to what Rupert tells me after I examine some clunky paraphernalia*. If you puff smoke at a bee, it’ll think the hive is on fire and hastily slurp up lots of honey to brace itself for a long trip. Its abdomen swells up to the point that it can’t sting you – and nor can it be arsed, now. And that’s when you make off with its loot.

Keeper? Probably not, but you never know.

* Don’t quote me.

Categories creatures

DAY 36: Asking the oracle

6 Oct

SOMETIMES it seems I’ll do anything to avoid getting my driving licence. The runes on Day 20 were a bit negative about the likelihood of me ever learning, so I’ve decided to ask the oracle if I should get a motorbike licence instead.