Free & Easy

Second day of the year, and it is public holiday quiet out on the streets and I love it. It is so peaceful and restful, so calm and easy to get anywhere out there. 

Sam has had a shopping fail, listen to me, do you like that? Well, he is the designated shopper, after all. Unusual for him, I might just add at this point before you all think I am some kind of monster. J (Truthfully, I just have to say, we need blah blah, and the next time I go to the cupboard the blah blah has been restocked, he is that good) So, I jest, of course, but it still means I have to go to Coles and get milk for my porridge. (Of course, Sam piles on the shopping list quick as a flash, one of the downsides to us having a joint list)

It is hot and muggy and overcast and still, there doesn’t seem to be one single movement happening when I step out on to our street closing the wrought iron gate behind me.

There is the 21 year old boy next door’s car (whose looks have been transformed by a haircut, you’d give him a second look now, where before [image of Joan River’s poking out her tongue in the negative), and my neighbour over the road’s car (her house was originally built as a brothel, my street was once the red light district run by Squizzy Taylor) and then my car, and then the rest of the street for at least 10 car lengths is empty, very unusual, just the residents are home. The crazy man 5 houses along, his car is across the road. He used to yell out for me to stop chopping wood in winter wishing my house would burn down if I didn’t, until I confronted him in the street one day and ever since he has been my best friend. Ug. The cute straight boy’s Landcruiser is also across the road. It makes a change from the tourists jostling for parking space on a usual day.

I’m listening to Joe Cocker, Honky Tonk Women.

Smith Street is practically deserted. It is lovely really.

 

The boys in Coles are all in shorts, thanks to the weather. I follow one guy in small black shorts with the most gorgeous hairy legs. Well, when I say follow, I am not following him deliberately, but he just happens to be walking in front of me as I head to the milk isle. He bends over in front of me at the yogurt for some Greek style and I so have the urge to slide my hand right up the back of his legs to his… oh, could you imagine? I chuckle to myself. He is much quicker grabbing his tub of the best natural and has spun around and is facing me, just as I am imagining how the backs of his hairy thighs would feel, and our eyes meet and lock momentarily, just as I am imagining his arse in the palm of my hand, and we have one of those uncomfortable two steps where we both try to step out of the other person’s way but actually step in the same direction and, er.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

Should we dance, I want to say, but don’t, of course.

 

I buy my first packet of hot cross buns for the year. (January 2nd? I don't care, as I like hot cross buns) In fact, I think it's good. They should be called what they really mean to people these festive dates, Easter, The Yearly Chocolate and Baked Good Festival, and the Xmas, the Yearly Present Giving Festival. Let's face it they don't mean much else to 95% of the population, if we were all honest.

I had a friend ask me recently, "Which one was the birth and which one was the death?"

"Does it really matter?" was my reply. “Born at Easter, died at Xmas” He seemed happy with that. Oh, I couldn’t resist.

(Always reminds me of my first year at uni when our first semester results were pinned to the noticeboard and the guy next to me said, all dejected, “Oh I really thought I did well. An HD, I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, never mind,” I said, without missing a beat. “I’m sure you’ll be able to do it again.”

Seriously, if you don’t know what a high distinction is, I’m not telling you.

Never cracked it for an HD, myself. I got a number of distinctions, but never an HD.)

And anyway, if you know your history, they were pagan dates appropriated by the Christians to smash the pagan market share way back when paganism was the dominant belief structure.

But I digress...

I buy strawberries and blueberries I think as some sort of health smoke screen to compensate for the fatty baked goods.

Anyway, now it is cleaning day, it is Sunday, of course. My boy is a stickler for, now what would I call it, routine? Schedules? (authoritarianism, despotery? Ha ha, I jest again. I’m a lazy cunt, so someone has to push me.)

“But it is the holidays?” I say, trying it on.

“The house still needs to be cleaned on the holidays,” he says totally unconvinced.

 

We really have done very little these holidays, other than lie about on our couches, in front of fans for the last three days. It’s been too hot to do anything, for the last few days anyway. We should have gone away, but there is omicron. The beach would have been nice. This would be great beach weather. Covid has kind of spoilt everything.

A couple of friends have suggested dropping by, but I have discouraged them. What am I like? It will be my own fault when I am old and friendless, but I really just like hanging out with Sam. The lockdowns have not been good for me, for the complete opposite reason to everyone else, I just like them too much.