Category: doctor’s wife

tracks in the sand


IMG_1127

Originally uploaded by adelaide writer.

According to my wise friend, the ends of old decades are much harder than the beginning of new ones. ‘When you’re 40,’ she said, ‘it’s a celebration and everyone tells you how good you look.’

Only two more years.

This, by the way, is a photo I took on my birthday when we walked along a beach where no one else had left their footprints that day and my littlest boy drew tracks in the sand, my eldest boy bounced, and everyone poked their fingers into anenomes.

So really, you have to wonder where is all this ‘what have I got to show for my life’ coming from?

Maybe it’s because there was no cake.

remedy for a jellyfish sting

Obviously, this advice is of a general nature only and you should seek advice from a medical professional or lifeguard…the man in the general store may be sympathetic and helpful, but he is not a medical professional. And he does have a commercial interest in moving these packets of slightly over-priced peas.

winning the toss

And if I were ever going to apologise to the mister for laughing at him for taking out SACA membership thereby fully denying our working-class roots, firmly flagging his membership of the corporate class, and at the same time spending rather a lot of money on something from which he can get only minimal participation, then this would be the time.

Because he can get a seat at the test and I can’t.

But I wouldn’t be able to find a babysitter anyway.

earings


earingsOriginally uploaded by adelaide writer.

At the mid-year work show, the bosses’ wives smile at her, then kiss her cheek. They wear perfume which doesn’t make her sneeze and they say and how are your boys then they smile.

She says oh beautiful, yes, growing up and into the silence she says the oldest one started school.

School, started school. They shake their heads, and they are all at once looking into each other and into themselves and the silence between them is shared.

She walks to the bar, and she chooses a bottle of wine. She says four glasses please and hands them around to people she barely knows.
The young ones smile politely at her and as the night wears on they say he’s a really good boss, I’m not just saying that and they show her their diamond rings. Their eyes flick from her face to her hands then back to her face again, but she has long since stopped explaining there is no engagement ring.

She no longer explains the pair of earings, molded black and gold and stored in her knickers drawer. Coveted, then bought, from the Melbourne Street Banana Room. It is a shop they wouldn’t know, because, like the holes in her ears, it has long since closed.