 Today we drove to my Dad’s place to pick up some bits of furniture and boxes of various family items destined for rehousing in our place. He’s moving out and off on a road trip, to spend time up in the warmer climes of Far North Queensland. There’ll be picturesque places for him to write, and giggly chocolate-loving grandchildren to keep him on his toes. He doesn’t like living alone.
As we pulled into his street, it dawned on me that I wouldn’t be coming to this suburb for a while. A suburb from my childhood, forever linked to my parents and my siblings. Now, I was a little hungover from celebrating a wedding the night before. I tend to get a little depressed when I'm hungover. Nevertheless, I became sad. Give or take, I’ve spent every Wednesday with Dad over the past year and a half. Just hanging. Working side by side on our laptops. Yes, occasionally going to the pub for beers at lunchtime, occasionally having afternoon naps, and occasionally one of us (okay me) taking photos of Dad napping and posting them on Twitter. I was sad because I realised I was mourning. Sad that another little family chapter was coming to an end.
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 Last week I dragged a couple of bin bags full of unwanted clothes to the Salvos. The bags were those purple scented ones that smell like lavender. I held one overloaded bag in each hand, willing them not to break in my weak arms as I crossed the highway before the lights changed. I think I prefer the yellow, citrus scented bags but the lavender ones were the only ones on special last supermarket shop. Some guy yelled out at me from his car as I trundled along, I think it was something to do with my breasts, not his choice of citrus versus lavender.
That same day I also crammed a heap of rubbish and recycling into the wheelie bins in the garage. As I sat rifling through boxes in our storage cage downstairs for items to chuck, I laughed as I rediscovered stuff including a folder full of Wikipedia printouts on random subjects, boxes from items I don’t own anymore and two broken unfashionable handbags. Why do I keep this shit? Was I going to mend these handbags? No chance.  One day I think I'm gonna write a collection of short stories based on life in an apartment building. Here's some real life ideas that may feature in the Apartment Anthology:
A Meow at the Door A party goes on into the small hours of the Sunday morning. A couple of the party guests stand outside my front door and meow. Do they know I have a cat? My cat doesn’t even meow. Should I let them in? Maybe they have photos of their own cats. I'd love to see them. A Girl's Gotta Eat A Deliveroo guy rings the apartment intercom. He holds up the bag to the monitor, it looks like there’s a substantial meal in there. Problem is, I didn’t order any food. Do I take it?  What are you writing about? You’re overdue for a blog. I feel like you need to blog more. You shouldn’t write about beer next. You should write about something funny. Real and imagined voices, giving me advice as I sit down and stare at a blank page. My brain is what I imagine a small crisp can of craft beer that’s been shaken up by a bored kid in a bottle shop feels like. Full of pressure. Pressure to write something witty and hilarious. Pressure to write about something other than beer. I need a beer to think about what I can write about to please everyone else.
Ahh wait. I think that's my problem. I’ve got writer’s block from stressing about what everyone else thinks I should be writing about. The other day on the way home from work, a day where I sit for 89.2% of the time, I managed to get a seat on the tram home so I could sit some more. At one stop, a very, very wrinkly old man got on and held on to the handrail. Oh yes, here we go. An excellent opportunity to show everyone on the tram what a kind and empathetic citizen of the world I am. I will offer this poor frail old man my seat. I stood up, full of show-offy pride and walked up to the senior citizen. “Do you want a seat?” I asked.  I had a tooth pulled out the other day. This is apparently what happens to people who don’t visit the dentist for 12 years. I made a dentist appointment primarily because my darling sweet husband’s face had slowly changed each time he went to kiss me. Like he didn’t want to go near my hideous-haven’t-been-properly-cleaned-in-over-12-years teeth. I honestly do not know what his problem was. I floss. Occasionally. Turns out, when the dentist had a look-see in my gaping gob, my dear husband’s disgusted face was somewhat vindicated despite the vows we took on our wedding day to love and obey me no matter what. My teeth needed a good professional clean, and one of my wisdom teeth needed to go.
Since the extraction, there has been a slight pang in the left side of my mouth where the adult tooth once lived. The pang will subside. Eventually, I won’t be able to feel any pain but until then I’m following the dentist’s instructions and eating soft foods only. Okay, I’m just eating ice cream and drinking non-carbonated drinks as directed (wine). |
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