liveblogging the South Australian election

In what Adelaide believes is a unique experience…liveblogging the South Australian election (although Adelaide isn’t sure what liveblogging actually means).

ABC 891 is off to a shaky start. Hello? Yes, boys, it is the evening. Tim Noonan out at South Australia’s most marginal seat.

Adelaide makes a big call: either Vini or Nigel will win (remember you heard it here first).

And it’s still the eminently watchable Michael Smith on the television (from what Adelaide can hear over the top of the Hungry Hippos – Adelaide asks, not for the first time, how can greatness be achieved?).

Adelaide is still disappointed that Anthony Green can’t be with South Australia this evening. Apparently, things will be more interesting down there in Tasmania.

broadcast interrupted to stop children jumping on each other’s backs – Circus Oz had seemed like a good idea at the time

!!In a serious blunder never made on election night before, Adelaide realises she has already finished the last of the wine, leaving only (red) bubbles in the fridge.

Adelaide predicts: the liveblog will end in a mess. Adelaide has, at least, fed herself (and her family of course).

Anthony Green’s voice can be heard, but it is 6.23 and he has nothing useful to say.

Kerry O’Brien has arrived. Adelaide’s husband will be home soon. Two Chrises on the radio. Kevin Foley and Nick Minchin on the television – Adelaide is hard-pressed to pick the difference between the two. Adelaide searches for glasses, but nothing becomes any clearer. Dean Jeansch is there too.

6.34
First figures in. 1.1%
Enfield – Green vote strong. Slight swing to the Libs according to Chris Pyne.
Collinswood – 239 votes counted.

We are not at the business end of the evening, Adelaide reminds herself.

Dean Jeansch talks about the .1% counted in Stuart, and Gunn is looking good. Adelaide says: too early to call.

erm…Adelaide notes that hers is the lone female voice commenting on this election…and no one can hear hers. Adelaide struggles with the cork on the bubbles.

Chris Pyne’s scrutineer rings in. The Brighton booth (in Bright) has been won by Chloe Fox. A swing of 11% to the ALP. Chris Schacht has a note of urgency in his voice. Chris Pyne says it doesn’t sound good. CS says the ALP hasn’t won that booth for twenty years. Adelaide concedes that Possum Magic is a good book. The radio is interviewing Chloe Fox.

On the television, Dean Jeansch is telling Kerry why they haven’t got the results from the metropolitan results yet and they can’t comment on Bright. Adelaide wonders isn’t anyone in the television studio listening to the radio?

Still, the thing about television is that you can see Vini resplendent in pink, but we have no idea what Chloe Fox was wearing.

6.52
Adelaide calls it: Labour to win. It’s a Rann-slide.

Adelaide publishes to make it official.

a brief interruption

They were running late for school, but the sound of Rob Kerin’s voice on the radio made the whole car feel somehow calm. Adelaide was particularly reassured to hear Kero explain that of course they could find efficiencies and cut 4,000 public sector jobs. Take education, for example, he said. With all those children leaving the public sector, we just don’t need that many teachers any more.

It was the kind of thing that once you heard it, it just made perfect sense.

What a pity things had been so hard to hear over the noise of the Festival and the Fringe and the Adelaide Cup.

Adelaide put on her blinker as she waited her turn at the lights. The windscreen could do with a wash she thought.

‘Mum, you forgot to give me my undies to put on,’ her little boy said.

There are some mistakes you make your child live with, Adelaide thought, and some you don’t. She turned the car around.

‘I can’t wait to tell my friends about that,’ her little boy said and both of the children laughed. And then they said undies to each other over and over again. And they yelled mum forgot and they laughed a lot and Adelaide couldn’t hear Kero’s voice any more.

Adelaide hoped they wouldn’t be too late for school.

correspondence from an MP

Adelaide was not ungrateful for the personalised, but not personal, correspondence she had received from her local MP. Even without the pamphlet with that random assortment of testimonials from people who had never been to a sub-branch meeting before, Adelaide knew that the said MP was a hard-working local member who – given the chance – could make good things happen.

But Adelaide was still mightily pissed off about this and its broader implications. And she remembered that no one had got back to her and replied to the lucid, articulate emails she had composed on the matter.

Adelaide sighed, pursed her lips and scratched her head.

It was just like her mother had taught her. It is quite a responsibilty, having a vote.

washing day

Despite the smell, Adelaide enjoyed sorting the washing.

She liked that the washing came with several decisions each of which had potentially awkward, but not life-threatening, repurcussions: where to put her brown cotton shirt – in with the darks or with the (generally shades of light) business shirts (his not hers); virtuous cold wash or more effective hot; quilt covers or just the sheets; flannels or just the towels; was this the weekend to do her favourite cardigan?

And as she answered each question to herself (darks, cold, sheets, flannels, no) Adelaide thought of her husband’s Nan. A most beautiful, glorious, warm and giggling Nan who worked in a cannery, but shopped of a Monday, baked of a Wednesday, and on Fridays did her wash.

And didn’t that just go to show that friendships are curious, glorious things Adelaide thought as she poured the softener in.

Rejection comes in many proactive forms

Adelaide had not expected to be rejected for a job for which she had never actually applied.

‘Well, dear,’ her mother said. ‘It does say that selecting the shortlist was hard, and that the quality of candidates was very high.’ Her mother smiled at Adelaide as she put the letter down.
‘I think it was nice of them to consider you all the same.’

Adelaide went back under her quilt and curled back into a ball.

Portrait of a Young Man Choosing his Figs

Adelaide, whose signature dish was burnt butter reduction of whatever was the least rotten in her fridge that day, bought her beansprouts from the same place as Cheong Liew and her cheese from the place she had seen Paul Kelly shopping once (he’s from round here originally don’cher know).

But the best, the very best thing Adelaide had ever seen on her weekly visit to the Central Market, was the Young Man Choosing his Figs.

Young Man with short black hair, tight t-shirt hugging tight upper bod, looking at each of the figs very carefully.

‘They would have been perfect yesterday,’ the Young Man said to his girlfriend with a disappointed shake of his head. He did not put a single just-past-perfect fig in his basket. The Young Man’s girlfriend smiled, then nodded and she looked, Adelaide thought, at the slightly imperfect figs more than a little wistfully.

Adelaide, watching the Dance of the Figs from behind the selection of excellent, if expensive, potatoes smiled when she caught the girlfriend’s eye.

‘If you want figs, you should take a walk around Unley,’ Adelaide said then she smiled. ‘They’re dripping over the fences. I see people picking them all the time. No one seems to mind. It’s that kind of fruit,’ Adelaide said using her knowing voice.

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t one of those things she just made up so that she could talk to someone she liked, but didn’t know. What Adelaide said was true. In only the last week, Adelaide had seen the english lecturer (clearly now retired) who had almost ruined poetry for her; a young girl with piercings galore; a woman filling the trolley on the back of her little boy’s trike; and one small woman dressed in black.

‘Where’s that?’ the Young Man said. ‘Where did you say they are?’

‘Oh,’ Adelaide said, not sure what to say faced with quite such intensity. ‘Oh, you know, just in some of those lovely old-fashioned gardens around Unley.’ She smiled, trying to cool the rising heat. ‘A Good Fig is…’ Adelaide started a sentence.

‘…Very Good,’ the Young Man said, smiling a young and passionate smile. Adelaide noticed his girlfriend squeeze his hand.

Adelaide fanned her face and turned back to the potatoes which, in a market context, was not rude.

The spirit of the Young Man followed Adelaide from the organic fruit and vegetable house, along the cheese counter and past the bread. She was still thinking of him as she scooped rice crackers, then loose tea leaves into bags; picked up her tofu and lime leaves from the Chinese Grocer (the one where she had last seen Cheong Liew); and selected her eggs (which at that price had bloody better be every organic, free range thing they said).

He was still vaguely with her as she picked up the avocadoes – three for a dollar, so you can’t go wrong – where she noticed the little boy in the pram wearing a gorgeous green and purple striped suit.

‘That’s a gorgeous suit,’ Adelaide said to the little boy’s mother.

‘Thank you,’ said the mother with, Adelaide thought, an unecessarily strained smile on her face.

And when she looked again, Adelaide realised that the little boy was, in fact, more than likely a little girl. And Adelaide thought that perhaps she might keep her thoughts to herself next week.