Nothing attracts a crowd quite like a wailing police siren and the skid of tyres. Couple those two deliciously enticing excuses to rubber-neck, add about 40 schools boys and you've got a party.
Lamentably, on this most recent ocassion, the sirens and skidding tyres were for my own benefit, or lack thereof. The crime, it appears, was not coming to a complete and sustained stop at the Stop sign directly outside the Young Man's school.
The police car, populated by a pair of asinine boofheads, witnessed a hoon (see previous post) making a flagrant and calculated left-hand turn into a cul-de-sac (one could make an excellent, if somewhat tenuous, allusion to this natty French term for dead-end and the constabulary themselves, however one will refrain) with absolutely no traffic in it, near it or around it due mainly to the fact that it was 7.43 A.M.
In the final stages of executing the move, I admit, I did see the police car, but by then the fat lady had done her work, so I continued and did what any good parent would do. Uttered a few expletives, banged the steering wheel into submission and drove off into the cul-de-sac...of death.
That's when the screeching of tyres began. Theirs, not mine. And the sirens, oh, the sirens. They were like a clarion call for every boy in the playground to down tools and get to the front gates tout de suite.
"Ohhhhhh, Mum," cried the Youth from the back seat. "Quickly," I said, "Get out now before they come." Leaping from the car with a certain amount of, as it turned out, misplaced alacrity, I ushered the young man inside with a bum's rush, thus ameliorating the chance of utter shame at the hands of his recalcitrant mother. He knew what was good for him, and took off like a thoroughbred in a knacker's yard.
The other two were not so lucky. "Stay here, Lovelies," I sang as the cop car pulled up behind. Suspecting me of fleeing the scene of the CRIME, the officer was out of his souped up Toyota in a trice.
"Do you know what you've just done?" he drawled.
Now, I could have played dumb, but there was something about having such a large and attentive audience that gave the man a sense of majesty and gravitas. Today was not going to be my lucky day.
I admitted my transgression, decided not to beg leniency or mitigating circumstances (mostly because I couldn't think of any fast enough) and amused myself by entertaining the early morning audience with my repertoire of eye rolls and pursed lips while he took my licence back to his car to check my catalogue of felonies.
However, the fact was, there were still Youth to get to another school three suburbs away. When he returned I asked in my most dulcet of tones, "Could you write me the ticket and I'll go. I have two girls to get to school and they're going to be late."
Well. That was Satan's knell. He gave me the death stare, closed his notepad and whispered these words: "Don't rush me." At which point he strolled to his rice-rocket, sat inside, closed the door and didn't emerge for another 15 minutes, brandishing my licence and a fine for $258.
My only assuagement was that after I cruised away from life's cul-de-sac I was still able to get the ladies to class on time by breaking the land-speed record to the suburbs beyond.
The drug-addled and decrepit, yet infinitely wise Keith Richards, hit the nail on the head when he said, "If you're going to kick authority in the teeth, you might as well use two feet.”
Monday, June 13, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
And Who Are You?
Dolled up, mascara'd and perfumed, I hit the town with the husband this week. Now, this primping and preening is not my normal modus operandi, and the posh pub at which we found ourselves is not my natural habitat. However, I tried my darndest to look good and behave myself "for the children". The reason for this aberrant nocturnal outing was our daughter's school drinks party. You know the sort: a get-together of like-minded individuals at a relaxed venue with a comforting sense of mutual conviviality.
Well, the trouble started early. As I sidled into the front bar, trying to look suave and devil-may-care, I was confronted by the infantry - the female variety. It appears that at these types of events one does not wear flat shoes. Despite the invitation assuring a 'casual' gathering, there appeared to be little of it in evidence. Not only were the heels not flat, they were sky-high. The type that any self-respecting chiropodist would have snatched from the offender's hoof and decapitated in one fell swoop.
My angst continued unabated. Taking a straw poll, I selected a few of the female guests and gave them the "Down, Up, Down" (a technique generally favoured by lascivious men who look you in the eye then let their glance move south and then north again to take in the full spectrum of you-ness).
The Down, Up, Down confirmed my suspicions. These women had left no detail to chance. Joh Bailey and his tonsorial team would have been hard-pressed to have pumped out this many blow-dried beauties in a week, let alone a Thursday evening. Brushing my own mane of mange back with alacrity, I made my way into the throng.
Now at close proximity, I was hit by the next in a relentless bank of crushing waves. These women were coutured. Unlike myself, who was sporting some old tat I'd picked up in a hurry from Sportsgirl or the like about five years ago, these women were wearing "names, Darling, NAMES".
The final inglorious assault on my selfhood (which had rapidly turned into Devil-Might-Care-Just-A-Little-Bit) was when some complete tosser, of the male species, approached me (resplendent in the uniform of these types: double-breasted navy jacket with gold buttons, white-collared pinstripe shirt and jeans with loafers) and spoke these words: "Excuse me, this is a private function. Do we know you?"
Three words entered my head, something along the lines of, "You little f***wit" (my quick calculations had him pegged at 5'6"). However, I remained calm, drew myself up to full height, looked down at his beautifully coiffured piece, pulled out my poshest English accent and said, "No you don’t. But who are you, dear boy?" That silenced the nasty weasel who, retreating to his gaggle of similarly height-challenged men friends, turned his back and huddled down into the safety of a scrum of Ralph Lauren polo shirts.
My work done, I retired to the bar for a nice glass of chardonnay with the words of Mark Twain in my head. “In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.”
Well, the trouble started early. As I sidled into the front bar, trying to look suave and devil-may-care, I was confronted by the infantry - the female variety. It appears that at these types of events one does not wear flat shoes. Despite the invitation assuring a 'casual' gathering, there appeared to be little of it in evidence. Not only were the heels not flat, they were sky-high. The type that any self-respecting chiropodist would have snatched from the offender's hoof and decapitated in one fell swoop.
My angst continued unabated. Taking a straw poll, I selected a few of the female guests and gave them the "Down, Up, Down" (a technique generally favoured by lascivious men who look you in the eye then let their glance move south and then north again to take in the full spectrum of you-ness).
The Down, Up, Down confirmed my suspicions. These women had left no detail to chance. Joh Bailey and his tonsorial team would have been hard-pressed to have pumped out this many blow-dried beauties in a week, let alone a Thursday evening. Brushing my own mane of mange back with alacrity, I made my way into the throng.
Now at close proximity, I was hit by the next in a relentless bank of crushing waves. These women were coutured. Unlike myself, who was sporting some old tat I'd picked up in a hurry from Sportsgirl or the like about five years ago, these women were wearing "names, Darling, NAMES".
The final inglorious assault on my selfhood (which had rapidly turned into Devil-Might-Care-Just-A-Little-Bit) was when some complete tosser, of the male species, approached me (resplendent in the uniform of these types: double-breasted navy jacket with gold buttons, white-collared pinstripe shirt and jeans with loafers) and spoke these words: "Excuse me, this is a private function. Do we know you?"
Three words entered my head, something along the lines of, "You little f***wit" (my quick calculations had him pegged at 5'6"). However, I remained calm, drew myself up to full height, looked down at his beautifully coiffured piece, pulled out my poshest English accent and said, "No you don’t. But who are you, dear boy?" That silenced the nasty weasel who, retreating to his gaggle of similarly height-challenged men friends, turned his back and huddled down into the safety of a scrum of Ralph Lauren polo shirts.
My work done, I retired to the bar for a nice glass of chardonnay with the words of Mark Twain in my head. “In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.”
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Inner Sanctum
There are few places a person can truly be alone. Existentially, of course, one can always retire to the solitude of one's own consciousness, although I always find this induces a wave of panic that prompts me to ask, “Am I good enough company for myself?”
But let's segue from this mildly alarming thought onto the pragmatics of solitude. I'm thinking specifically here of the solitude one gains on hearing the satisfying click of the lock on the bathroom door. This, in theory, secures the inner sanctum and ensures that interlopers are cancelled out regardless of their efforts. Yes, you may be able to hear the mayhem and carnage unfolding outside the door, but that's someone else's problem now. You're 'in the bathroom' and, as such, are incommunicado.
This may be a dereliction of duty, but it's extremely effective at deflecting requests for breaking up fights, changing nappies and answering telephones. You can take your time in this tiled and mirrored alter-world. Why don't you gaze into the mirror to check for crow's feet, test out that new lip gloss, perform a mini pedicure. These were the simple and fleeting joys of the bathroom.
I say 'were' because a disturbing and fundamentally divisive event rocked my belief in Solitude recently. I was happily shampooing my hair (something I only do every third day so as not to squander the scant moments of Sanctuary) when I heard the usual harks from beyond the firmly locked door.
"I need a Band-aid. Can you open the door?" bellowed the eldest Youth. "You'll have to wait, I'm in the shower," I reply.
He tries again, "No, I need it now. The blood's dripping." I retort, "No, just hold a tissue on it."
Silence descends and I feel content that a crisis has been averted. But then I hear it. A little jiggle on the door handle. Then, quite unmistakably, the lock begins to turn until 'click', HE'S IN! "Out, out," harangues The Shrew (as I am fondly known on occasion). He scarpers and isn't seen again until I emerge from the Sanctum, demanding to know how he breached the fortress.
He holds up his weapon - a 20 cent coin - looking all sweetness and light.
One half of me is devastated at the demise of the Sanctum, but the other is quietly proud that the Youth had the ingenious temerity to even try.
However, I'm still with Franz Kafka when it comes to solitude. "Don't you want to join us?" he was asked by an acquaintance who encountered him alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. "No, I don't."
But let's segue from this mildly alarming thought onto the pragmatics of solitude. I'm thinking specifically here of the solitude one gains on hearing the satisfying click of the lock on the bathroom door. This, in theory, secures the inner sanctum and ensures that interlopers are cancelled out regardless of their efforts. Yes, you may be able to hear the mayhem and carnage unfolding outside the door, but that's someone else's problem now. You're 'in the bathroom' and, as such, are incommunicado.
This may be a dereliction of duty, but it's extremely effective at deflecting requests for breaking up fights, changing nappies and answering telephones. You can take your time in this tiled and mirrored alter-world. Why don't you gaze into the mirror to check for crow's feet, test out that new lip gloss, perform a mini pedicure. These were the simple and fleeting joys of the bathroom.
I say 'were' because a disturbing and fundamentally divisive event rocked my belief in Solitude recently. I was happily shampooing my hair (something I only do every third day so as not to squander the scant moments of Sanctuary) when I heard the usual harks from beyond the firmly locked door.
"I need a Band-aid. Can you open the door?" bellowed the eldest Youth. "You'll have to wait, I'm in the shower," I reply.
He tries again, "No, I need it now. The blood's dripping." I retort, "No, just hold a tissue on it."
Silence descends and I feel content that a crisis has been averted. But then I hear it. A little jiggle on the door handle. Then, quite unmistakably, the lock begins to turn until 'click', HE'S IN! "Out, out," harangues The Shrew (as I am fondly known on occasion). He scarpers and isn't seen again until I emerge from the Sanctum, demanding to know how he breached the fortress.
He holds up his weapon - a 20 cent coin - looking all sweetness and light.
One half of me is devastated at the demise of the Sanctum, but the other is quietly proud that the Youth had the ingenious temerity to even try.
However, I'm still with Franz Kafka when it comes to solitude. "Don't you want to join us?" he was asked by an acquaintance who encountered him alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. "No, I don't."
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Don't Mess With The Lady
There are few things more ignominious than defeat at the hands of a 7-year-old. And here I'm not talking about pretending to be bowled out in cricket or letting them win at Scrabble. I'm talking about ACTUAL defeat where you're trying your valiant best but come to the heart-breaking realisation that you're seriously not going to win this game of chess. She's got you on the ropes and aside from resorting to infantile methods to remedy the situation (i.e. upending the board with feigned alarm, diverting her attention while reinstating your Queen, or convincing her that Rooks actually can move diagonally) you're going to have to fall on your sword.
This, however, is almost impossible. I stall, I perseverate, I pontificate, but she's onto me. "Just make a move," she says in her mini wise monkey voice. “Don't rush me, kid! There's dignity at stake here.” That's what I'm thinking, not what I'm saying. In reality, some verbal rubbish about being very busy or very tired or some such escapes from my lips before I can help myself. Then, "Oh Christ, look at the time! We've got to go." (These humiliations (plural) usually occur in the hour between breakfast and leaving for school so there’s always a good get-out clause.)
There is a fair amount of harumphing, tsking and ohhhhhhing before I can convince her that it really is most important that we get on the road. While she’s safely strapped into the car, I bolt back inside and sweep the chess pieces into their box. My pain is over for another week or so.
This ruse, of course, will only last for so long until she realises that she has the better of me. Is there any shame in that? I'm not sure, but it certainly doesn't feel good. In fact, in stinks. I thought at some point my children might overtake me - but at SEVEN!
So I take my lead and minor solace from the rambunctious French pip-squeak Napoleon, who opined that Death is nothing, but to live Defeated and Inglorious is to die daily. I don't mind dying on the chess battlefield if it means that I'll be remembered fondly. Adieu.
This, however, is almost impossible. I stall, I perseverate, I pontificate, but she's onto me. "Just make a move," she says in her mini wise monkey voice. “Don't rush me, kid! There's dignity at stake here.” That's what I'm thinking, not what I'm saying. In reality, some verbal rubbish about being very busy or very tired or some such escapes from my lips before I can help myself. Then, "Oh Christ, look at the time! We've got to go." (These humiliations (plural) usually occur in the hour between breakfast and leaving for school so there’s always a good get-out clause.)
There is a fair amount of harumphing, tsking and ohhhhhhing before I can convince her that it really is most important that we get on the road. While she’s safely strapped into the car, I bolt back inside and sweep the chess pieces into their box. My pain is over for another week or so.
This ruse, of course, will only last for so long until she realises that she has the better of me. Is there any shame in that? I'm not sure, but it certainly doesn't feel good. In fact, in stinks. I thought at some point my children might overtake me - but at SEVEN!
So I take my lead and minor solace from the rambunctious French pip-squeak Napoleon, who opined that Death is nothing, but to live Defeated and Inglorious is to die daily. I don't mind dying on the chess battlefield if it means that I'll be remembered fondly. Adieu.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Life, the Universe and Everything
There are a couple of killer questions that you're never quite prepared for when they issue from the mouths of babes. So, on Wednesday I could deal with the "where do babies come from?" clanger from the 4-year-old. But the one that threw me was Thursday's, "Mum, do you believe in God?" Okay, so maybe when you're 7 these things really play on your mind, but I'd done my perseverating on Creationism versus Evolution many decades before and hadn't really given it much more airtime since.
Right, I thought, I'll go through the logistics first. I'm going to give him the facts and let him work it out for himself. I tell him about what the scientists say about the Big Bang Theory and Darwinian Survivial of the Fittest. At this point I'm struggling a bit having ditched Science in Year 11. But I'm sounding pretty erudite (to The Youth anyway) and Mr 7 is nodding sagely, taking it all in.
But when it comes to the Creationist theories I'm struggling a little. The more I talked about how some 'being' created the entire universe and every living thing in it in 7 days, the more Mr Back Seat is looking like I'm spinning him some sort of crapola. "What!", he says. "Invented EVERYTHING...in SEVEN days." In the rear vision mirror I see that he looks supremely unconvinced and starts shaking his head. "No", he declares. "That doesn't sound right." I'm not sure at this point whether he's doubting my credentials as a reliable source of fact or whether the whole God Theory isn't washing for him. After an interminable silence he pipes up from the back. "I'm an Evolutionist", he says. I nodded my head in agreement. Do you think it's too early to introduce him to Richard Dawkins?
Right, I thought, I'll go through the logistics first. I'm going to give him the facts and let him work it out for himself. I tell him about what the scientists say about the Big Bang Theory and Darwinian Survivial of the Fittest. At this point I'm struggling a bit having ditched Science in Year 11. But I'm sounding pretty erudite (to The Youth anyway) and Mr 7 is nodding sagely, taking it all in.
But when it comes to the Creationist theories I'm struggling a little. The more I talked about how some 'being' created the entire universe and every living thing in it in 7 days, the more Mr Back Seat is looking like I'm spinning him some sort of crapola. "What!", he says. "Invented EVERYTHING...in SEVEN days." In the rear vision mirror I see that he looks supremely unconvinced and starts shaking his head. "No", he declares. "That doesn't sound right." I'm not sure at this point whether he's doubting my credentials as a reliable source of fact or whether the whole God Theory isn't washing for him. After an interminable silence he pipes up from the back. "I'm an Evolutionist", he says. I nodded my head in agreement. Do you think it's too early to introduce him to Richard Dawkins?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Who was that hoon?
In my teens everyone was doing it, in my twenties it was totally de rigeur, in my thirties it was generally tolerated, but now that I've hit forty, my hoon driving has become officially unacceptable (to selected persons anyway). I'm not sure if you know the type of driving I'm talking about, so let me live it for you here. The sunroof is open, all the windows are down (regardless of wind chill factor), the stereo is at ear-bleeding, sunnies are on. Music selection is incredibly cool, of course, and all other family members have been dispatched from the car. It's just me, the stereo and the open road (or Anzac Parade). The speed limit is not necessasrily being adhered to at this point.
In my own mind I'm this hip, urbane, groover behind the wheel. But then there's the time-space continuum. Strictly speaking consciousness is subjective, so I can be whomever I want in these little hoon fantasies of mine. However, the continuum does allow for other realities and I suspect that mine may be at the delusional end of the Bell Curve.
Let's take a moment to study, shall we, how an unbiased voyeur may see things. Observe, the mother in the 4WD with the four baby booster seats arranged in the rear of the vehicle. Note, the harried look and furrowed brow. These seemingly inocuous details are vital in determining what we have here. She is The Ageing Hoon, unable to glide gracefully into middle-age, into sensible shoes and grown-up couture, into blow-dried hair and Blackberries.
The Youth have declared my hoonish behaviour mildly amusing, sometimes alarming but only acceptable if their choice of music is playing. My husband vascillates between love and loathing. He loves it on a Friday night after a dinner out when he can play Joy Division as loud as he likes and hang his head out the window yelling at passers-by. He hates it on a Saturday morning when my erratic antics bring on billious attacks.
Yes, it may be juvenile behaviour on my part, but I like it and I'm sticking with it.
But this does beg the question: how old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?
In my own mind I'm this hip, urbane, groover behind the wheel. But then there's the time-space continuum. Strictly speaking consciousness is subjective, so I can be whomever I want in these little hoon fantasies of mine. However, the continuum does allow for other realities and I suspect that mine may be at the delusional end of the Bell Curve.
Let's take a moment to study, shall we, how an unbiased voyeur may see things. Observe, the mother in the 4WD with the four baby booster seats arranged in the rear of the vehicle. Note, the harried look and furrowed brow. These seemingly inocuous details are vital in determining what we have here. She is The Ageing Hoon, unable to glide gracefully into middle-age, into sensible shoes and grown-up couture, into blow-dried hair and Blackberries.
The Youth have declared my hoonish behaviour mildly amusing, sometimes alarming but only acceptable if their choice of music is playing. My husband vascillates between love and loathing. He loves it on a Friday night after a dinner out when he can play Joy Division as loud as he likes and hang his head out the window yelling at passers-by. He hates it on a Saturday morning when my erratic antics bring on billious attacks.
Yes, it may be juvenile behaviour on my part, but I like it and I'm sticking with it.
But this does beg the question: how old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
School Holidays SUCK
"Let's get one thing straight", I said to The Youth this morning as they whipped up their 457th origami crane to add to the collection which I will later be called on to purchase from their 'shop'. "We're not spending any money today, okay. We're not buying any Strawberry Squeezes from Boost Juice, we're not going to the cinema, we're not even getting a box of orange Tic-Tacs at the service station." This news went down like the proverbial lead balloon, and their tiny little minds started ticking over almost immediately. How were they going to vanquish this parsimonious malcontent they had before them?
As I see it, the whole game of master and slave is a relentless exercise in autocracy and degrading submissions. Regrettably, The Youth have sussed this and are using it to their advantage. They know that a war of attrition is the ideal way to achieve their goals, and that school holidays are the parents' Achilles Heel.
With this ammunition in their holsters, they began their assault early. Could they watch a movie before breakfast? Absolutely not. Could they check their emails? No. Could they have pancakes for breakfast? Are you joking. With my despotic reputation intact, the Infantry decided to make their move. I want a haircut today. Can we go to Alice's house? What are we doing today?...You get the idea. My armour was slipping, and it was only 7.15am.
Weet-bix were eaten, clothes were donned, travel was undertaken and we found ourselves at the Museum where I had booked them into a FREE children's show where the little blighters were required to do things maritime: scrub decks, haul supplies, eradicate rats, you know the stuff. After an hour they came off the 'ship', huddled, conferred and arrived at the universal opinion that the show was 'for babies'.
Was Dostoevsky talking about me when he said in The Idiot, 'The soul is healed by being with children'?
As I see it, the whole game of master and slave is a relentless exercise in autocracy and degrading submissions. Regrettably, The Youth have sussed this and are using it to their advantage. They know that a war of attrition is the ideal way to achieve their goals, and that school holidays are the parents' Achilles Heel.
With this ammunition in their holsters, they began their assault early. Could they watch a movie before breakfast? Absolutely not. Could they check their emails? No. Could they have pancakes for breakfast? Are you joking. With my despotic reputation intact, the Infantry decided to make their move. I want a haircut today. Can we go to Alice's house? What are we doing today?...You get the idea. My armour was slipping, and it was only 7.15am.
Weet-bix were eaten, clothes were donned, travel was undertaken and we found ourselves at the Museum where I had booked them into a FREE children's show where the little blighters were required to do things maritime: scrub decks, haul supplies, eradicate rats, you know the stuff. After an hour they came off the 'ship', huddled, conferred and arrived at the universal opinion that the show was 'for babies'.
Was Dostoevsky talking about me when he said in The Idiot, 'The soul is healed by being with children'?
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