Naive Psychologist

It was her introduction to the phenomona known as pupil-free days.

It’s true: if you eat enough chocolate frogs you will look like one.

She could only hope that the mister – a prince of the handsomest kind – would take the time to kiss her before he scoffed her down.

The cream is Moroccan Rose and new.

It is thick and rich and coloured gently pink.

She scoops it on after she has towelled her hair and before she brushes powder on her cheeks. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right.

The lid and the label are black and after only a week, they are showing her fingerprints.

It has the kind of smell which wafts in and out of her day and makes her reach for memories that haven’t been made.

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

Note to KG: it is rarely ironic, and never ironical.

Also, could you be a little less partisan, and a little less parochial.

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.