we're all making our own sense of things
She heard on the radio, that after the fight between Anthony Mundine and some dude called Green, a bunch of stoushes broke out in pubs where the fights had been showing on the televisions.
And isn’t that the kind of world you want to be bringing two little boys up in? she thought to herself.
It was an imperfect sentence and technically flawed, but she knew what she meant.
‘No, sorry, it isn’t worth fixing this camera you’ve only had for three years…anything to do with the batteries and it’s a whole new motherboard…nah, it’s not even worth sending it away…we don’t sell these anymore…pity your warranty has expired…let me show you this new one it’s got face recognition, it’s really cool…’
Avert eyes from all ridiculously appealing consumer goods including televisions you don’t need binoculars to see and dvd players which would mean you could start watching movies again.
Trudge, trudge, trudge, mutter, mutter, mutter…yes, we’re going home now, please don’t jump on the lounge…no daddy does not let you bounce on the lounges in shops…nor does your granny…please don’t yell at me.
Standing in the doorway, checking everything is back in bag after accidental spill.
Overheard: ‘yeah, look, mate, can’t stop now, get your missus to give mine a ring…yeah, look, I’d better leave it with you, you know what my missus is like it’ll never get done’.
Get in the car. Leave the car park without running anyone down.
It doesn’t matter what time you go to bed, the planes and the wattle birds all start again at dawn.
Dear Chocko
It’s a poor workman blames his tools.
Love, Adelaide
No one ever achieved greatness sitting their kid in front of the CD player.
Silence from the child (or as close to it as you can expect from a three year old), but you try concentrating with they might be giants, bananas in pyjamas, or dinosaur tales in the background. Even quality stories and tunes burrow themselves into your brain and leave no room for original, or even lucid, thought.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk,’ she said. At least she could exercise her body if not her brain.
‘I’m listening to my CDs,’ he said with that particular tone in his voice.
May as well fold the clothes then, she thought.
They needed to work on their morning routine.
‘See you when I get home, I love you, don’t forget to wake Mum up at eight o’clock‘ just wasn’t cutting it.
Oh. She did, in fact, have somewhere she should have been on Saturday night. And while she could offer all manner of excuses, they would sound undergraduate, and in the end it came down to this:
‘I forgot.’
‘Perhaps,’ the mister said, ‘a little less of the red?’
She was no expert, but she had some advice nonetheless.
Kick it to Cornes.
Do it for your jumper.
And if you can’t think of your jumper, remember your mum is watching.
Update: thrashed. Glad it was the mister’s turn with the season ticket.
The wasabi peas were not what she had expected, but she would be buying more next week.