Loving the List, Hating Myself

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The boyo and I spent last week adding ticks to my ‘list to end all lists’ - the definitive guide to everything we had to do, buy, pay, reschedule and redirect before skipping the country.

At first I embraced and loved the list, knowing that once in-country planning would collide with African time and be utterly useless - I’ve never forgotten the Zimbabwean distinction between ‘just now’ and ‘just now now’, which was, give or take a few months, two weeks.

After a few days of dashing between appointments, shops and dentists (I escaped with all my teeth!) the enthusiasm was dwindling. Yet a few more days and both the boyo and I were done with the list, even if it weren’t. Our thoughts turned to the forthcoming departure partay.

While the boyo was looking forward to it, I was seized by trepidation. With the notable exception of Drewberry, all my crew were scattered across the state, progressing WA’s mining boom and I was thus faced with the terror of a room top-heavy with Claremontians.

Claremont is the suburb we live in; a place that boasts six shoe shops and a main street that doubles as catwalk for the swarm of queen bee’s that swank down it. Since I wear neither make up, high heels or glittery little dresses, I always feel like I’m going to be accosted at the post office one day and told that ‘YOU, do not belong here’.

It is of couse, unfair of me to project these dysfunctions onto other people. Which is not enough to stop the inner nerd coming out and then hiding again. I will point out (before anyone starts feeling too special) that I don't reserve my personal idiosyncrasies just for the Claremontians. For example, when I visited Oxford I had to sit on my hand to suppress the itch, as a wild colonial, to slap the tweed out of the tally-ho locals.

I should get therapy but alas, busy with the list and my obsession for ticks, there was no time. So, on the night, I did as painfully shy people do and hid. By basing myself on the balcony amongst the smokers I was able to use the nicotine haze like mossie repellent. The only time I ventured inside was to aim a lighter at the indecent amount of arse crack the boyo was displaying every time he bent over - my way of saying pull up your pants son.

Though ashamed of myself for resorting to such desperate measures of avoidance it did turn out to be a good night, featuring (like all classy events), plenty of beer and stolen witches hats, a particularly funky exit stack by a guest over our glass coffee table (which I will award points for style and not breaking it) plus a visit from the fun/police. Something about noise….

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