The Setting: 1966- A Cambridge flat, drab with minimal furnishings. Piles of books are stacked against the wall and old newspapers cover a small table in the middle of the kitchen/dining area.
Germaine Greer is busily cleaning the kitchen while Robert Hughes sits at the paper-strewn table drinking a bottle of beer. The door opens and in staggers Clive James, drunk.
Clive: Whooo! Clive is on the piss again. (Sings) Clive is on the piss again!
Hughes: What's happening mate? Where you been?
Clive: Just down at the rub-a-dub with Barry Humphries. Spew. (giggles to himself)
Greer: (Not looking up from her cleaning) What were you doing with that dickhead?
Clive: Reckons he's hit on a new idea. Spends three months in London, and now he's gonna start wearing a dress and acting like a housewife. Sounds like poofter activity, if you ask me.
Hughes: A dress? Bloody hell. What else did he say?
Clive: Not much, we just shot the shit, chatted up the waitresses. Nice birds.
Hughes: Any love?
Clive: Nah, I was doing alright with one, but... you won't believe this... I farted just as she dropped off our second bottle of Beaujolais. Man, it stank. After that it was all over. I think she spewed.
Hughes: That's awesome. I dropped a ripper today at the Tate, right in the middle of the Degas exhibition. The women next to me looked like they were crying.
Clive: Did they spew? I would have spewed. Your farts are rank. A good fart should always get some spew going.
Greer: Sorry to interrupt you Rhodes scholars, but what are we going to do about the energy bill this month? Clive, you still owe us for last month.
Clive: Shit. I just pissed it all away.
Greer: Clive! Didn't Bazza owe you money? What happened to that?
Clive: I... um... I lost it on a dog. You got any more of those beers, Hughsey? I'm gonna spew if I get any more soberererer (giggles).
Greer: Hold on, a dog? Bloody hell Clive. You're useless. What are we gonna do? It's going to be winter in a month, and I don't have any bras to spare for fuel.
Hughes: (coming back from the fridge with a beer for Clive. Strikes a Shakespearean pose). Now is the winter of our discontent...
Greer: Don't start Robert, this is serious.
Clive: (holding the beer bottle up to his eye like a telescope) Bloody oath it is, I can't get this beer open.
Hughes: They're not twisties mate, where's my key ring?
Clive: It's alright, mate (starts opening the bottle with his teeth). It'll be okay Germaine Sausage. I'll tell you what I'll do... (lifts his leg and farts, followed by raucous laughter from him and Hughes).
Hughes: That's disgusting you sicko. Oh man, the place is gonna stink for a week!
Greer: Oh well, it's still better than...
Together: Living in Australia!
Stone cold Circumstances
Monday, July 9, 2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Tackling the issues one cup at a time...
Ideological arguments don't often break out between domestic appliances, but when they do, they're big. Really big. This one had already spread from the granite bench top into the top shelves of the kitchen cabinets, sending cockroaches scuttling from behind the toaster towards quieter regions of the open plan living/dining room with galley-style kitchen. It was essentially a domestic dispute between different generations of coffee delivery mechanisms. It began when the Delonghi coffee machine made an offhand comment about the privatisation of public utilities, but by now it had pretty much degenerated into a slanging match between the left and the right. The Delonghi was leading the right's case, arguing for the inevitability of privatisation as a result of the inescapable need for competition to ensure quality service and an open market. He was shiny and new, and had grown up in an environment where houses were always worth more than they were yesterday, and where six credit agencies would send someone to your house if word got out you were thinking of financing a couch. He had received unexpected support from the Percolator, who many expected to side with the Espresso Jug and the Instant- a decision based mostly on the assumption that because the Percolator wore plastic casings from the '70s, her values would reflect that era. She tempered the Delonghi's more hard-line stance, saying that governments should look at privatisation as a means of ensuring progressive and innovative service, but that any public/private contracts should include provisions to guarantee agreed standards of service to non-profitable areas. At this point the Grinder and Roaster had started chiming in with support, because they supported deregulation, but were put off by Delonghi's aggressive capitalism and views on gay marriage.
It annoyed Espresso Jug that Grinder and Roaster had jumped in behind Delonghi. Espresso Jug didn't mind so much about Percolator, because he felt she meant well, but was misguided as a result of her privileged upbringing and impressive range of accessories. What annoyed him was that Grinder blindly followed Roaster, despite Espresso Jug's hunch that deep down Grinder was more liberal than Liberal. Delonghi particularly irked Espresso Jug, not least because Delonghi's multi-purpose interface had made stove top coffee brewing a thing of the past. Espresso had spent a lot of years in the cupboard since Delonghi arrived, and resented the economic forces that had made a $3200 coffee machine seem like a necessity, instead of the appallingly gross luxury he felt it was. As such, Espresso had taken up a kind of intellectual liberalism as a defence mechanism against the long, cold, coffee-less nights in the cupboard. He and Instant were united behind the idea that most services should be public to ensure equity of access for all. Instant was the driving force behind the left's case. Instant was essentially a Marxist, and saw himself at the bottom of the class system that existed within the kitchen. Despite his hard-left ideology, Instant secretly supported tightening immigration policy, as he resented the influx of European immigrants that had popularised 'real' coffee. He was aware of this inconsistency in his political philosophy, and overcompensated for it by rabidly attacking Delonghi and Percolator as often as he could. He was enjoying this argument, because the subject matter was black and white. "People should control all infrastructure and assets," he shouted at Delonghi, "to prevent the exploitation and manipulation of the lower classes by owners bent on monopoly and profits."
The Toaster had had enough. He was a simple two-slices-at-a-time appliance, and had no strong opinion on politics, religion or sex- particularly not at 3am.
"Will you idiots give it a rest? Save it for the bloody letters page!"
The kitchen fell silent, with each appliance taking their opinion to bed with them. Ideological arguments don't often break out between domestic appliances, but when they do, the Toaster always gets the final word.
It annoyed Espresso Jug that Grinder and Roaster had jumped in behind Delonghi. Espresso Jug didn't mind so much about Percolator, because he felt she meant well, but was misguided as a result of her privileged upbringing and impressive range of accessories. What annoyed him was that Grinder blindly followed Roaster, despite Espresso Jug's hunch that deep down Grinder was more liberal than Liberal. Delonghi particularly irked Espresso Jug, not least because Delonghi's multi-purpose interface had made stove top coffee brewing a thing of the past. Espresso had spent a lot of years in the cupboard since Delonghi arrived, and resented the economic forces that had made a $3200 coffee machine seem like a necessity, instead of the appallingly gross luxury he felt it was. As such, Espresso had taken up a kind of intellectual liberalism as a defence mechanism against the long, cold, coffee-less nights in the cupboard. He and Instant were united behind the idea that most services should be public to ensure equity of access for all. Instant was the driving force behind the left's case. Instant was essentially a Marxist, and saw himself at the bottom of the class system that existed within the kitchen. Despite his hard-left ideology, Instant secretly supported tightening immigration policy, as he resented the influx of European immigrants that had popularised 'real' coffee. He was aware of this inconsistency in his political philosophy, and overcompensated for it by rabidly attacking Delonghi and Percolator as often as he could. He was enjoying this argument, because the subject matter was black and white. "People should control all infrastructure and assets," he shouted at Delonghi, "to prevent the exploitation and manipulation of the lower classes by owners bent on monopoly and profits."
The Toaster had had enough. He was a simple two-slices-at-a-time appliance, and had no strong opinion on politics, religion or sex- particularly not at 3am.
"Will you idiots give it a rest? Save it for the bloody letters page!"
The kitchen fell silent, with each appliance taking their opinion to bed with them. Ideological arguments don't often break out between domestic appliances, but when they do, the Toaster always gets the final word.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Welcome to "I know you're from circumstances"
I've moved my blog to this site for a number of reasons. Hopefully it will improve useability, and allow me to focus more on results-based performance of primary and secondary tasks without process inconsistencies affecting output.
Thank you for understanding.
Stephen
Thank you for understanding.
Stephen
It's the little things that say so much...
"You don't even know what music you're going to play, do you?"
"No, I thought I'd hit shuffle on the old iPod and plug it into the stereo."
"Your iPod? Do you even realise what's on there? The music you play tonight will tell her a lot about you. Do you want to leave your character reference up to a random number generator? What if it starts playing those "teach yourself French in the car" lessons you downloaded but are yet to listen to? You'll look like a wanker."
"Maybe I'll crack out a few of my CDs. She has a picture of Peter Doherty on her desktop at work, maybe I'll play some Babyshambles."
"She'll see right through that. A) you called him 'Peter'. B) The last time you were offered speed, you turned it down on the grounds 'I've already lost too many points off my licence'. Granted, it's the only moderately "cool" CD you own, but even then it's only cool in a try-hard "look how many drugs I'm on YOU'RE NOT LOOKING!" kind of way. You'll hit play, she'll start talking about the Libertines and you'll end up looking like a retard."
"Ok, well what about something fun? I've got that old 2pac album in my room…"
"2pac? Are you serious? Remember what happened last time you listened to hip hop? 'How'm I doin? I'm ballin', biatch!' Bloody hell. Irony requires confidence. You're currently having a conversation with yourself and losing. You can't have rap, you know it just makes you all faux-cocky and you'll drop another clanger like the "I'm ballin'" atrocity you unleashed on that poor girl at The Orient."
"We could have a laugh at my Top Gun sound track? That could be a good conversation starter."
"Conversation starter? It'll start a text conversation with her friends under the table teeing up somewhere to go after she leaves your place before you can even plate-up dessert. You haven't had a girl inside these walls for eight months, and you want to point that out to her by playing the soundtrack to the most testosterone-fuelled, cock-rockin' movie ever filmed? Genius. Why don't you just run a Powerpoint of those pictures you took of yourself flexing?"
"Well… maybe something innocuous, you know? Just some background noise. I've got that Forrest Gump soundtrack…"
"How many soundtracks you planning on spinning tonight? Don't associate yourself with a slow-talkin', slow-witted non-threat. You need something that will paper over your glaring personality problems, not provide her with a cue to say: 'that's who he reminds me of.'
"Maybe I could play the radio, but what if one of those erectile dysfunction ads comes on? You know I get awkward around that kind of thing."
"How do you know? Tonight's the closest you've been since to that kind of thing since your 35-year-old cousin sat in your lap at that wedding last year."
"Maybe I won't play anything. It's too difficult."
"And let her listen to the sound of flop-sweat spewing out of your pores? No chance. Play that Crowded House album. Nothing says 'you' like adult contemporary."
"Good idea. Thanks."
"Who are you thanking? I am you, just the part of you that hates you. You probably shouldn't even be talking to me."
"I like the company."
"And that's why we're sleeping alone tonight."
"No, I thought I'd hit shuffle on the old iPod and plug it into the stereo."
"Your iPod? Do you even realise what's on there? The music you play tonight will tell her a lot about you. Do you want to leave your character reference up to a random number generator? What if it starts playing those "teach yourself French in the car" lessons you downloaded but are yet to listen to? You'll look like a wanker."
"Maybe I'll crack out a few of my CDs. She has a picture of Peter Doherty on her desktop at work, maybe I'll play some Babyshambles."
"She'll see right through that. A) you called him 'Peter'. B) The last time you were offered speed, you turned it down on the grounds 'I've already lost too many points off my licence'. Granted, it's the only moderately "cool" CD you own, but even then it's only cool in a try-hard "look how many drugs I'm on YOU'RE NOT LOOKING!" kind of way. You'll hit play, she'll start talking about the Libertines and you'll end up looking like a retard."
"Ok, well what about something fun? I've got that old 2pac album in my room…"
"2pac? Are you serious? Remember what happened last time you listened to hip hop? 'How'm I doin? I'm ballin', biatch!' Bloody hell. Irony requires confidence. You're currently having a conversation with yourself and losing. You can't have rap, you know it just makes you all faux-cocky and you'll drop another clanger like the "I'm ballin'" atrocity you unleashed on that poor girl at The Orient."
"We could have a laugh at my Top Gun sound track? That could be a good conversation starter."
"Conversation starter? It'll start a text conversation with her friends under the table teeing up somewhere to go after she leaves your place before you can even plate-up dessert. You haven't had a girl inside these walls for eight months, and you want to point that out to her by playing the soundtrack to the most testosterone-fuelled, cock-rockin' movie ever filmed? Genius. Why don't you just run a Powerpoint of those pictures you took of yourself flexing?"
"Well… maybe something innocuous, you know? Just some background noise. I've got that Forrest Gump soundtrack…"
"How many soundtracks you planning on spinning tonight? Don't associate yourself with a slow-talkin', slow-witted non-threat. You need something that will paper over your glaring personality problems, not provide her with a cue to say: 'that's who he reminds me of.'
"Maybe I could play the radio, but what if one of those erectile dysfunction ads comes on? You know I get awkward around that kind of thing."
"How do you know? Tonight's the closest you've been since to that kind of thing since your 35-year-old cousin sat in your lap at that wedding last year."
"Maybe I won't play anything. It's too difficult."
"And let her listen to the sound of flop-sweat spewing out of your pores? No chance. Play that Crowded House album. Nothing says 'you' like adult contemporary."
"Good idea. Thanks."
"Who are you thanking? I am you, just the part of you that hates you. You probably shouldn't even be talking to me."
"I like the company."
"And that's why we're sleeping alone tonight."
A bear by any other name...
Byron laughed. He had to. If the laugh had sounded like it should, it would have sounded like compressed air rushing out of the valve of a BMX tyre, probably a Mongoose. There was a lot of pressure inside Byron.
"Yeah, I know they're not really bears, but they make 'em in China, and obviously they don't know that there," Byron said, trying not to scream at the man in his fifties who was currently waving a small stuffed toy koala in his face. The man was wearing a tweed sportscoat over a black t-shirt that had been aggressively tucked into his jeans. The jeans were trying hard, but couldn't quite cover the man's bright white joggers, which were the only part of his outfit more striking than his prematurely silver hair.
"Well, I think it's terrible that you guys misspell the names of these things. I notice one of the erasers over by the Crocodile Dundee hats was also wrong. Where is "News South Wales", I wonder?"
"I'm sorry you're not happy, perhaps there's something..." Byron didn't have time to finish, the man slammed the by now probably perplexed stuffed marsupial (definitely not bear) down on the counter.
"If I wanted to throw money away on rubbish souvenirs I'd buy match programs at football games. All I wanted was a small gift for an international visitor I'm receiving ("That sounds about right" Byron thought, but didn't say- those kind of comments are best said around friends with gay joke clearance) and I come in here and find koala BEARS. Look, it even has "BEAR" embroidered on its little yellow surf lifesaving outfit!" the man said unnecessarily loudly. His shouting pushed Byron over the edge.
"Look mate, I don't make the f---ing souvenirs, I just sell them and try to explain to Chinese people that there isn't a bus from Circular Quay to Uluru, and get patronised by people who forget that I also shop, and am thus not a lesser person than they are. Patronised by people who think that their position on the shop floor relative to mine grants them the right to be complete dickheads. If you wanted a Louis Vuitton embossed leather koala, you should have gone to the QVB. Perhaps G'day Cobber Australian Souvenirs Surry Hills is not the place for you. Perhaps you should get home and run the toothpaste over those runners again mate, seeing as they're clearly your "going out" footwear. It might rain later, so maybe I could lend you some plastic bags to put over them, but you probably wouldn't want them because there's a misplaced apostrophe in the safety warning. Now, unless you're going to buy the koala bear, piss off and go get the wine spritzer you're so clearly desperate to drink before you go home to- I'm going to guess and say the Woolloomoollo wharf, but not the expensive part- and settle down to write a submission to Column 8 aking "what are they thinking down at the souvenir place" that will never be published. The guy who checks the emails will probably just mutter "wanker" under his breath before he double-clicks your night's work out of existence."
Byron slumped back, exhausted, against a display cabinet full of postcards of women in 1995's hottest bikinis saying "G'day from Down Under". The man turned and stormed out of the store. Byron was disappointed because he realised this was probably the only time in his life he'd abuse a customer, and he still had five years of bilious frustration ready to rush out of him like the aforementioned compressed air. Fortunately the man came back later to buy the koala, and Byron abused him again, having spent the intervening two hours coming up with fresh material.
"Yeah, I know they're not really bears, but they make 'em in China, and obviously they don't know that there," Byron said, trying not to scream at the man in his fifties who was currently waving a small stuffed toy koala in his face. The man was wearing a tweed sportscoat over a black t-shirt that had been aggressively tucked into his jeans. The jeans were trying hard, but couldn't quite cover the man's bright white joggers, which were the only part of his outfit more striking than his prematurely silver hair.
"Well, I think it's terrible that you guys misspell the names of these things. I notice one of the erasers over by the Crocodile Dundee hats was also wrong. Where is "News South Wales", I wonder?"
"I'm sorry you're not happy, perhaps there's something..." Byron didn't have time to finish, the man slammed the by now probably perplexed stuffed marsupial (definitely not bear) down on the counter.
"If I wanted to throw money away on rubbish souvenirs I'd buy match programs at football games. All I wanted was a small gift for an international visitor I'm receiving ("That sounds about right" Byron thought, but didn't say- those kind of comments are best said around friends with gay joke clearance) and I come in here and find koala BEARS. Look, it even has "BEAR" embroidered on its little yellow surf lifesaving outfit!" the man said unnecessarily loudly. His shouting pushed Byron over the edge.
"Look mate, I don't make the f---ing souvenirs, I just sell them and try to explain to Chinese people that there isn't a bus from Circular Quay to Uluru, and get patronised by people who forget that I also shop, and am thus not a lesser person than they are. Patronised by people who think that their position on the shop floor relative to mine grants them the right to be complete dickheads. If you wanted a Louis Vuitton embossed leather koala, you should have gone to the QVB. Perhaps G'day Cobber Australian Souvenirs Surry Hills is not the place for you. Perhaps you should get home and run the toothpaste over those runners again mate, seeing as they're clearly your "going out" footwear. It might rain later, so maybe I could lend you some plastic bags to put over them, but you probably wouldn't want them because there's a misplaced apostrophe in the safety warning. Now, unless you're going to buy the koala bear, piss off and go get the wine spritzer you're so clearly desperate to drink before you go home to- I'm going to guess and say the Woolloomoollo wharf, but not the expensive part- and settle down to write a submission to Column 8 aking "what are they thinking down at the souvenir place" that will never be published. The guy who checks the emails will probably just mutter "wanker" under his breath before he double-clicks your night's work out of existence."
Byron slumped back, exhausted, against a display cabinet full of postcards of women in 1995's hottest bikinis saying "G'day from Down Under". The man turned and stormed out of the store. Byron was disappointed because he realised this was probably the only time in his life he'd abuse a customer, and he still had five years of bilious frustration ready to rush out of him like the aforementioned compressed air. Fortunately the man came back later to buy the koala, and Byron abused him again, having spent the intervening two hours coming up with fresh material.
Real living is having shoes that match your couch...
Leah (pronounced 'Lay' for no other reason than her mother didn't want her to have a boring name) was at a loss. Yesterday she had been the world's foremost fashion critic. Today she was on medication and she was a nobody.
"Got to get some smokes and sort this out," she thought to herself as she walked down the street away from the hospital. At least, she thought she had said it to herself. She was in reality talking in a loud and expressionless voice. The startled look of the private school boy walking past should have alerted her to this fact, but it didn't. She walked into a 7-11 and asked the sullen looking teenager behind the counter for a packet of Winfield Charcoals. As the boy turned to the perspex-fronted display case, Leah cast a disapproving eye across his clothes.
"Sorry, I don't want to be a bitch, but you are dressed sooooo badly," she said, having by now lowered her voice and forced a small amount of expression into it, hence the extended 'o' in 'so'. "I mean, you're making three statements at once, and they're all pathetic. Is it emo, scenester, or indie rock that you're after? I certainly can't tell."
7-11 Guy turned from the cigarette stand and gave Leah the most withering look his 16-year-old angst could muster.
"Look, I'm sorry if you don't want to hear it, but if you're going to wear a The Smiths shirt you need to pair it with something better than black slacks and some loafers. I'd suggest perhaps a pair of black skinny leg J. Lindebergs and some '92 Air Jordans, or possibly the '90 Air Max, laces out of course."
7-11 Guy, realising that his intensely emotional gaze was having no effect on the strange woman in the Macquarie University hoodie and grey fleecy tracksuit pants, changed tack.
"Do you want these smokes or not?" he asked, holding the cigarette packet on the palm of his limply held hand in a way that said "I don't care if you die, but if you do, please move out of my direct line of sight."
"Not as much as I want to spend 10 minutes inside your wardrobe planning you some outfits... but yes."
"They're 12 bucks," 7-11 Guy said, now looking past Leah at the drinks fridges.
Leah realised she had no idea what was in her pockets. She had been in hospital for two weeks, and had no idea whose clothes she was wearing. Certainly not hers. (They were hers, but two weeks ago the hoodie was a Hugo Boss short jacket and the trackpants were a D&G shift.) She checked her pockets and found an American Express with her name on it and a $20 note that smelled like someone had vomited Sambuca onto it. She handed over the $20.
"Just promise to think about what I said," she told the guy who liked The Smiths, or at least liked shirts with their visage on it.
"Piss off." he said.
"Idiot" Leah thought as she left the 7-11. "Who turns down fashion advice from..." Leah remembered she wasn't actually a fashion writer, particularly not a famous one. She had quite enjoyed it- the trips to Milan, Paris, New York, cocktails with designers and models. Leah wondered where she had really been during her "trips". (She'd mostly been in the sun room of a heroin addict's two-bedroom terrace tearing pictures of celebrities out of magazines. On her few ventures outside the sunroom she'd thrust the pictures into the faces of passers-by asking "What was she thinking when she left home in that!?!" Very few gave their honest opinion.)
"Well, I was pretty good at fashion writing then, I don't see why I couldn't do it again," she thought to herself, by this time having realised that if she consciously clamped her jaw down she wouldn't say everything she thought. "I'll give Fernando a call, see if he knows anyone." It occurred to Leah that Fernando was probably not real. In fact, very few of her fashion clique probably actually existed. What had the doctor said? Something about the power of the imagination creating pretend worlds blah blah blah. She'd stopped listening by that stage, distracted by his mismatched belt and shoes. "Bugger it then. I'll do it on my own. I've got an Amex and $6. I'll buy a pen and some paper and start writing."
Later that day, having purchased a black pen and a spiral bound notebook, Leah discovered that although her friends and career were imaginary, her credit card debts were all too real. She sat outside the heroin addict's house wondering how she was going to pay off $10,000 in credit without even a fictional salary. The junkie had refused to let her in, but had given her a milk crate to sit on, and maybe later to collect garbage in. She was now down to her last $1.85, and had just three cigarettes left. A passing homeless man aggressively mooched two of those from her, and she was left with a single cigarette. She opened her notebook and decided to write a review of his outfit. After about half an hour she had written "unoriginal and smelly" 17 times and produced a crude drawing of a small hairy dog. "I don't think I could sell this for much," she thought glumly. For the first time in two years the full reality of her situation was sinking in. Leah let her head drop down, her chin resting on her chest. The hard plastic webbing of the milk crate was digging into her buttocks.
A large delivery truck drove up the small lane and stopped oustide the junkie's home. Two large Eastern European men hopped out, with one running around the back to open the truck's the rear roller door. The second man sauntered up to Leah. "With the exception of the French Riviera, men should never be seen in shorts," Leah thought, having not yet totally given up on her fashion career.
"You Leah St John?" the big man asked.
"It's actually pronounced 'Lay'".
"I got couch here for you. You take?"
Leah nodded, slightly confused but feeling like this might be the first piece of good news she received that day. The two men unloaded what was clearly a $10,000 couch off the back of the truck and placed it on the footpath. Signature received, they hopped back into the truck and disappeared down the lane. Leah cast her eye over the couch. She wanted to describe it, but she was still fixated on "smelly and unoriginal", and neither of those adjectives seemed appropriate. The couch was a bold but elegant shade of red, and was so soft Leah wondered if its manufacturers had C-sectioned calves to get such fine leather. The couch's modern lines matched the boldness of its colour. "Sit on me," it seemed to say, "but always remember I'm better than you." Leah sat down on the couch and gathered her feet up under her. Yesterday she had been a famous fashion writer. This morning she was on medication and was a nobody. This afternoon she was a nobody sitting on a credit-bought couch in the late afternoon sun. She pulled out her notebook again and made a small entry:
"Things to do: Buy red handbag and shoes."
"Got to get some smokes and sort this out," she thought to herself as she walked down the street away from the hospital. At least, she thought she had said it to herself. She was in reality talking in a loud and expressionless voice. The startled look of the private school boy walking past should have alerted her to this fact, but it didn't. She walked into a 7-11 and asked the sullen looking teenager behind the counter for a packet of Winfield Charcoals. As the boy turned to the perspex-fronted display case, Leah cast a disapproving eye across his clothes.
"Sorry, I don't want to be a bitch, but you are dressed sooooo badly," she said, having by now lowered her voice and forced a small amount of expression into it, hence the extended 'o' in 'so'. "I mean, you're making three statements at once, and they're all pathetic. Is it emo, scenester, or indie rock that you're after? I certainly can't tell."
7-11 Guy turned from the cigarette stand and gave Leah the most withering look his 16-year-old angst could muster.
"Look, I'm sorry if you don't want to hear it, but if you're going to wear a The Smiths shirt you need to pair it with something better than black slacks and some loafers. I'd suggest perhaps a pair of black skinny leg J. Lindebergs and some '92 Air Jordans, or possibly the '90 Air Max, laces out of course."
7-11 Guy, realising that his intensely emotional gaze was having no effect on the strange woman in the Macquarie University hoodie and grey fleecy tracksuit pants, changed tack.
"Do you want these smokes or not?" he asked, holding the cigarette packet on the palm of his limply held hand in a way that said "I don't care if you die, but if you do, please move out of my direct line of sight."
"Not as much as I want to spend 10 minutes inside your wardrobe planning you some outfits... but yes."
"They're 12 bucks," 7-11 Guy said, now looking past Leah at the drinks fridges.
Leah realised she had no idea what was in her pockets. She had been in hospital for two weeks, and had no idea whose clothes she was wearing. Certainly not hers. (They were hers, but two weeks ago the hoodie was a Hugo Boss short jacket and the trackpants were a D&G shift.) She checked her pockets and found an American Express with her name on it and a $20 note that smelled like someone had vomited Sambuca onto it. She handed over the $20.
"Just promise to think about what I said," she told the guy who liked The Smiths, or at least liked shirts with their visage on it.
"Piss off." he said.
"Idiot" Leah thought as she left the 7-11. "Who turns down fashion advice from..." Leah remembered she wasn't actually a fashion writer, particularly not a famous one. She had quite enjoyed it- the trips to Milan, Paris, New York, cocktails with designers and models. Leah wondered where she had really been during her "trips". (She'd mostly been in the sun room of a heroin addict's two-bedroom terrace tearing pictures of celebrities out of magazines. On her few ventures outside the sunroom she'd thrust the pictures into the faces of passers-by asking "What was she thinking when she left home in that!?!" Very few gave their honest opinion.)
"Well, I was pretty good at fashion writing then, I don't see why I couldn't do it again," she thought to herself, by this time having realised that if she consciously clamped her jaw down she wouldn't say everything she thought. "I'll give Fernando a call, see if he knows anyone." It occurred to Leah that Fernando was probably not real. In fact, very few of her fashion clique probably actually existed. What had the doctor said? Something about the power of the imagination creating pretend worlds blah blah blah. She'd stopped listening by that stage, distracted by his mismatched belt and shoes. "Bugger it then. I'll do it on my own. I've got an Amex and $6. I'll buy a pen and some paper and start writing."
Later that day, having purchased a black pen and a spiral bound notebook, Leah discovered that although her friends and career were imaginary, her credit card debts were all too real. She sat outside the heroin addict's house wondering how she was going to pay off $10,000 in credit without even a fictional salary. The junkie had refused to let her in, but had given her a milk crate to sit on, and maybe later to collect garbage in. She was now down to her last $1.85, and had just three cigarettes left. A passing homeless man aggressively mooched two of those from her, and she was left with a single cigarette. She opened her notebook and decided to write a review of his outfit. After about half an hour she had written "unoriginal and smelly" 17 times and produced a crude drawing of a small hairy dog. "I don't think I could sell this for much," she thought glumly. For the first time in two years the full reality of her situation was sinking in. Leah let her head drop down, her chin resting on her chest. The hard plastic webbing of the milk crate was digging into her buttocks.
A large delivery truck drove up the small lane and stopped oustide the junkie's home. Two large Eastern European men hopped out, with one running around the back to open the truck's the rear roller door. The second man sauntered up to Leah. "With the exception of the French Riviera, men should never be seen in shorts," Leah thought, having not yet totally given up on her fashion career.
"You Leah St John?" the big man asked.
"It's actually pronounced 'Lay'".
"I got couch here for you. You take?"
Leah nodded, slightly confused but feeling like this might be the first piece of good news she received that day. The two men unloaded what was clearly a $10,000 couch off the back of the truck and placed it on the footpath. Signature received, they hopped back into the truck and disappeared down the lane. Leah cast her eye over the couch. She wanted to describe it, but she was still fixated on "smelly and unoriginal", and neither of those adjectives seemed appropriate. The couch was a bold but elegant shade of red, and was so soft Leah wondered if its manufacturers had C-sectioned calves to get such fine leather. The couch's modern lines matched the boldness of its colour. "Sit on me," it seemed to say, "but always remember I'm better than you." Leah sat down on the couch and gathered her feet up under her. Yesterday she had been a famous fashion writer. This morning she was on medication and was a nobody. This afternoon she was a nobody sitting on a credit-bought couch in the late afternoon sun. She pulled out her notebook again and made a small entry:
"Things to do: Buy red handbag and shoes."
And the NRL think they have a problem...
Australia's football stars are out of control!
Headline from smh.com.au 7/6/07 7.20pm
"Bombers kill eight Iraqi police"
Expect heads to roll down at Windy Hill. Sheeds is gonna explode!
Headline from smh.com.au 7/6/07 7.20pm
"Bombers kill eight Iraqi police"
Expect heads to roll down at Windy Hill. Sheeds is gonna explode!
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