Poo Brown Goodness
Posted on 2008-Apr-24 at 10:23
I am looking out from the Poo Brown Balcony of the Poo Brown Flat and I think to myself “You know, it could have been worse”. I am not sure what I was expecting to find in Perth, but it has been so important that I lived here again, even just briefly. For so, so many reasons.
To be brutally honest, I had always held on to Perth as the location of my happiest childhood. That innocent time when I thought that anything was possible. The happy school where I was at the top of my class and had many, many friends. The happy life with Nat living just down the road and all the shocking “Grease” concerts we forced our poor parents through. The safe suburban setting where my Mum and Dad were still together and my only sibling, Danielle, was still alive. Danny and I used to play games like “Who can push the other one off the trampoline” (stitches twice ensuing) and “How to hide your Brussels sprouts under your mashed potato whilst diverting the beady eyes of your Mother”. Ah, happy days.
But we all know the only thing constant is change. Of course all this was decades ago, on another planet, and nothing will bring those times back. Besides, would I really look so good in that truncated, yellow-chequered school uniform now that I am 38? I think not. It has been a great six month ride in what is, honestly, now a completely different city. And now is the time again to move on. I shift all the time and so this really is no different. In fact, my Dad often jokes about my contribution to his address book.
Perhaps I should explain about my Dad’s address book. No hard-backed alphabetised log-book for him. No, no, NO! Instead, for as long as I can remember, Dad has carried around the same folded and folded-again piece of paper in his wallet. All the numbers he needs are on there, he assures me, and he has had it so long that most of the folds have turned into air and so it is like a paper Rubiks Cube (once unfolded, a dire challenge to return to its original configuration). One day he allowed me to view it and I had to laugh. Sure enough, there were all his friends logically ordered (as only a chartered accountant knows how); however, amongst these lucid listings was an apparent insurgent: Me.
There are so many crossings out in Dad’s “address book” under my name, so many arrows pointing to the next piece of space, so many scrawls up the margin, that Dad’s filing system is starting to look like the cheat sheet of a first year university student. Hehehe! – sorry Dad!
Then again, he is the first one to confess that he has moved residence 32 times in his 65 years. Perhaps he is feeling the heat of potential competition? Or maybe it is just genetic.
Anyway, this time next week the Fundinator and I will be flying away from W.A. to the wilds of Sydney, Wollongong and Orange, New South Wales. I do apologise for the apparent negativity of my last blog, but I have not been in the best headspace about it at all. Am I scared of the Fundinator meeting my parents? OK, well, yes. A little. But only because they have photos from the 80’s.
No, I am really not sure what it is. Probably the best I can explain it is that three years ago I sold up my life and ran away to find myself. And damn it all to a Firey Hell, I probably did. RAH!!!
I am a psychologist's field day. :D
To be brutally honest, I had always held on to Perth as the location of my happiest childhood. That innocent time when I thought that anything was possible. The happy school where I was at the top of my class and had many, many friends. The happy life with Nat living just down the road and all the shocking “Grease” concerts we forced our poor parents through. The safe suburban setting where my Mum and Dad were still together and my only sibling, Danielle, was still alive. Danny and I used to play games like “Who can push the other one off the trampoline” (stitches twice ensuing) and “How to hide your Brussels sprouts under your mashed potato whilst diverting the beady eyes of your Mother”. Ah, happy days.
But we all know the only thing constant is change. Of course all this was decades ago, on another planet, and nothing will bring those times back. Besides, would I really look so good in that truncated, yellow-chequered school uniform now that I am 38? I think not. It has been a great six month ride in what is, honestly, now a completely different city. And now is the time again to move on. I shift all the time and so this really is no different. In fact, my Dad often jokes about my contribution to his address book.
Perhaps I should explain about my Dad’s address book. No hard-backed alphabetised log-book for him. No, no, NO! Instead, for as long as I can remember, Dad has carried around the same folded and folded-again piece of paper in his wallet. All the numbers he needs are on there, he assures me, and he has had it so long that most of the folds have turned into air and so it is like a paper Rubiks Cube (once unfolded, a dire challenge to return to its original configuration). One day he allowed me to view it and I had to laugh. Sure enough, there were all his friends logically ordered (as only a chartered accountant knows how); however, amongst these lucid listings was an apparent insurgent: Me.
There are so many crossings out in Dad’s “address book” under my name, so many arrows pointing to the next piece of space, so many scrawls up the margin, that Dad’s filing system is starting to look like the cheat sheet of a first year university student. Hehehe! – sorry Dad!
Then again, he is the first one to confess that he has moved residence 32 times in his 65 years. Perhaps he is feeling the heat of potential competition? Or maybe it is just genetic.
Anyway, this time next week the Fundinator and I will be flying away from W.A. to the wilds of Sydney, Wollongong and Orange, New South Wales. I do apologise for the apparent negativity of my last blog, but I have not been in the best headspace about it at all. Am I scared of the Fundinator meeting my parents? OK, well, yes. A little. But only because they have photos from the 80’s.
No, I am really not sure what it is. Probably the best I can explain it is that three years ago I sold up my life and ran away to find myself. And damn it all to a Firey Hell, I probably did. RAH!!!
I am a psychologist's field day. :D
Re-visiting an 'Olden Days' residence. The window to the far right is where I, at long last (in 1976), received a Kick'n'Go Zipper. And where I learned that Santa swore. Heehee!
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