mother's day

If they're going to give you donuts, at least make them Spanish.

patience

panic bolt

train crash

‘Good luck with your wife and your girlfriend,’ Lolli said to Pete on the way home last night.

And here we are: Pete, his not-quite ex-wife and her parents, their kids and me, standing around the outdoor chairs at his wife’s new place. Shuffling plates of grain waves and watermelon to make way for sadness and sandwiches.

‘What’s going on in the garden?’ I ask the five year old, hoping that someone will sit down in those chairs while we’re rummaging through scorched basil, pumpkins and bees. Pete’s wife comes out with a bug zapper made to kill small things. ‘It’s sort of fun,’ she says.

The three year old has his helmet on. He takes his new bike up and down the driveway on a birthday walk of glory, then lets it clunk against the side of the house. Back to the table full of sugar, his hand in a bowl full of snakes. I give him an hour before he crashes.

I follow Pete’s wife into the kitchen for a glass of water and her mother follows shortly after, to fuss over the symmetry of the train cake she has baked. ‘Do you read The Age?’ the older asks, standing too close. Sizing me up, diverting attention.

I know that you know that he thinks I’m fucked, Pete’s wife says with her eyes as she hands me a tumbler. Please don’t think I’m fucked.

In the middle of this kitchen, my face is up against the glass at the end of someone else’s marriage. And there’s a three-carriage, four-colour train-shaped cake between us.

lismore veggo

us: what's good to eat here?
bartender: all of it.
barfly: the fish is beauuuuutiful.
us: how's the lamb shank?
bartender: i dunno, i'm a vegetarian.
pete: but you said it was all good!
bartender: yeah, well we don't get any complaints about the meat from them (waves her arm at the front bar, where blokes are standing belly to belly with beers at their chests). i eat the chicken and fish ones, they're good.
barfly: you're makin' me hungry (drinks white wine from pot glass).
me: fish for me.
pete (later): i have a 50kms rule when it comes to seafood, and we're within that range, but that barramundi is far, far from home.

lismore hotel, hamilton hwy

hot lava

life cycle

come to daddy

aphex twin at the palace

k: i can see six women in this whole place.

b: you're not counting the chicks who are disguised as men. i can see at least ten, not even counting the bar staff. this is what testosterone smells like.

genes for jeans

p: wow, that's the primary colours of hipster pants. if the guy in red slept with the guy in blue, they'd make purple pants. if the guy in yellow slept with the guy in blue they'd make greens pants and if the guy in yellow slept with the guy in red, they'd make orange pants. and if they had a big orgy they'd make brown pants.

k: that's borderline homophobic buddy.

p: what, that's gold right there. it's the primary colours of hipster pants.

Big in Macau

girl: oh yeah, James Packer is big in Macau.

guy: he's big everywhere, isn't he?

wedding speech

her: you know what i love about being with you? i can finally relax, because i know i'm never going to get herpes.

him: can you please say that in your wedding speech? if we get married?

Wizzy hill

There’s a box full of Barbies waiting for me over the wizzy hill at Liesel’s place. I don’t know what I'm more excited about, the wizzy hill or the Barbies. Our stomachs rise into our ribs as Dad takes the Renault over the top – in the back, my brother and I lift off from our booster seats, squealing. Time hangs with us up there, then seatbelts snap us back into place.

Do it again! 

My stomach is still wizzy when we get to Liesel's. We sit on the steps out the front, the sunlight in her curly black hair, her shoulders bare. Dad stretches out a hand and rests it on her shin, they laugh and talk while my brother looks for lizards in the cracks in the concrete and I scratch behind my knees. Can I play with the Barbies? 

Tiny plastic shoes spill onto the bricks, a little apron and hospital gown and sparkly mini skirts, a knot of dolls tangled at the elbows and legs, a hairbrush the size of my pinky, a silver gown and a diamond ring you press through Barbie’s finger to fasten, like pierced ears. I don’t have my ears pierced yet. Liesel does. Today she's wearing big hoops I can almost fit my hand through.

Gentle, darling, says Dad. 

I want this light feeling to come home with us. 

If there are no other little girls who play with them, can I take the Barbies with me? I ask this one more time, even though I know they’re Liesel’s very special Barbies and I can't take them home, but I can play with them whenever we come over. Maybe Liesel can come over to our house one time and bring the Barbies.

Maybe one day, Dad says. Or maybe we can get you some Barbies for home.

When we get back to Jindalee, Mum puts her arms loose around me then goes back to grating vegetables. Her eyes are red. Dad vanishes out the back and while Mum stands at the sink, I climb into the Tupperware cupboard and tell her again about the wizzy hill. About Liesel’s earrings. About the Barbies. 

Maybe if I’m a really good girl, I can have some of my own.

Albert

on the landing

guy: i'll see you down the bottom.
girl: that's not the first time i've heard you say that today.
guy: yeah but i swear that was a total accident.