Moving stuff

I woke at 7.05am. Sam was asleep. I could feel the anticipated heat of the day approaching. I nudged him. 

“What time did you set the alarm for?”

“For 7am.”

I was momentarily confused. Oh. Of course, the bedside clock is set ten minutes fast, so it wasn’t quite 7am yet.

Still.

“Get up, Dean will be here in half an hour.”

The last hurrah of moving house. The last items that had to be taken from Bolago to Jane’s place in Ocean Grove. The last couple of things that Mark ran out of time to get done; the pinball machine and the TV cabinet. I knew Mark had asked Dean the last day I was at Bolago and Dean had agreed, but I was none too pleased when Dean roped me in, a couple of days after I got back to Melbourne.

“You know that job for Mark,” Dean left as a message on my answering machine, “I can do it Sunday. Get back to me if you can too.”

Sunday, I’m not doing it.

I rolled ten joints while Sam was in the shower, just to lessen his stress. I located my silver cigarette case almost immediately, the universe knows that I don’t use it that much, and yet there it was. Voila! No searching necessary. I much prefer it now that it is tarnished, it looks much cooler, like it has lived. Before, it looked like a twenty first birthday present... which it wasn't, but I'm sure you know what I mean.

I made coffee and prepared muesli. We barely had enough milk. In fact, we didn’t have enough, I hate that. The coffee was a little blacker than I would have wanted and the muesli a little drier. Of all the fucken cows in the world - and we know there are many - why aren't any of them squeezing their teats into my milk carton?

Dean called at 7.20am and said he was leaving home. "Oh good," I thought. "The time Nazi isn't on time." Bonus time for us.

We left home at 7.50. I text LouLou to tell her, she had already text me about an ETA text. She had also sent me texts, or left messages, about the following - 

A confirmation of coming, a week ago.

Confirmation that it was Sunday and not Saturday, as she had just found a note that said something about Saturday.

A confirmation last night that we were coming today.

And an ETA text this morning.

LouLou has lists of lists of lists, that she has to double check and cross reference with each of her reminders. Each one of those reminders would be a line on one of her lists, which would need to be crossed.

Mark’s right hand woman. I don’t know how he put up with her for the last ten years. She would drive me mad, my hands would be around her neck in a relatively short time. Until she went purple. Coughed and spluttered her last.

Of course, I could be guaranteed that everything would get done with LouLou around. Nothing would be missed.

Dean was chipper, he talked non-stop all the way to Bolago. Of course, Dean being Dean.

Sam had to have the middle seat, in the cab of the truck, the less comfortable seat, the seat in which one’s arse goes to sleep and goes numb. Well, I mean, he didn’t have to, but that is how it worked out.

Even after all the texts, LouLou still didn’t arrive until half an hour after us.

If we’d used my method, We will be there sometime around 9am, said once, as I said in the first place, a week ago, the same outcome would have been achieved.

We got going sometime after 10am. It is a straight, direct road to Jane’s. We set the GPS, and drove straight to her door. It couldn’t have been easier. The Victorian countryside just seemed to disappear, passed us and behind us. It was a lovely day.

Her house is nice, leafy and green, with big gum trees.

I suggest that we don’t need Andy (the super boring father of her child. Let's face it, the sperm donor) over to help, why bother him, I ask? If we can get by without seeing him, the day would be even better, is that plain enough?

Dean, Sam and I whip the pinball machine off the truck and whisk it into the garage. Dean and Sam weren't quite aware of the urgency.

Jane looked at the gorgeous, what was used as the TV cabinet at Bolago, as though she was looking at it for the first time. It’s a lovely piece and Jane looked kind of quizzical and questioned remembering that the wood it is made from was always so dark. I pretty much sum up that this wasn’t a daughter who wants pieces that were nice, which she had admired for some time, this was a daughter who was grabbing what she could.

I hear Jane later on the phone to Andy, "Oh they didn’t need you darl, but you can still come over for lunch."

Andy was fine, actually, I shouldn’t be such a bitch. Andy is okay, except that he can get too intense speaking at you, that’s all. He can go on way passed the socially accepted time that one would be expected to have finished a particular topic of conversation. 

Andy is a nice guy. He and Dean chatted tradie things. Andy gardens, Dean walls. 

Jane made a gorgeous lasagne and salad and we had chocolate biscuits and mince pies and lime juice cordial. We sat outside and the sun shone down like gorgeous honey and I smoked my fifth and sixth and seventh joint and a nice day was had by all.

Jane still criticised everything Mark did. She blames him for leaving this delivery so late, meaning that Dean and I got lumbered with it. “He had months to do it,” she said.

I didn't say anything.

“Let’s face it, they bought the new property two years ago, they could have packed it all up years ago. But no, always the last minute, so I’m sorry all you guys had to do it instead."

Which means, Jane, you have also had two years to organise the delivery of this stuff yourself. It is your stuff, maybe it is you who should be taking the blame for its late arrival.

That being said, Jane was lovely, we all had fun. It was nice spending the day with Dean. It was nice doing something. I got to see parts of the world I hadn’t seen before, or hadn’t seen for a long time.

A lovely day in the country was had by all.

It was late afternoon as we headed home. The sun was lovely, as we cruised up the long and straight and, seemingly, no end in sight Geelong Road – long, flat strips of liquorice stretching all the way to the horizon.

I had to have the middle seat on the way back, so it was my arse that was getting pained, being put to sleep, experiencing pins and needles and deterioration, until it was screaming, or cramping and I had to wriggle around to make it better.

Mark called as we drove up the Geelong Road. He told me later that he thought I sounded funny, too. (just like Jane) I was just stoned and tired… and propped up in the dickie seat trying to keep my thigh out of the way of the gear stick.

We got home around 6pm.

Shane was home, in his room watching TV, looking lonely and on his own. He hates being on his own and it just looked like he had given into it.

It was a gorgeous evening, sunny and bright.

Sam wanted to go to Chadstone to buy an iPhone 4S. Apparently, we had until 9pm. I sooo didn’t want to go. No, I didn't.

“Okay, let’s go,” I said. Even though I was feeling fucked, I knew it would make him happy. I knew it was something he really wanted. I didn’t want to stand in his way, just because I was tired. I didn’t want him to feel disappointed in as much as what could have been, if only…

“Let’s go, we can have dinner there.”

“Really? Seriously?” he said.

He called before we left and the Apple Shop had closed at 5pm. Later, he was to tell me, that he only checked the standard hours and not the extended hours, which said they were open to 9pm. Of course, it was my fault because I had given him pot and poisoned him, which effected his mind.

We went to his place to get the rest of his business wear to wear to work, instead. He has to wear a suit to the new job.

We ate Japanese in Lygon Street Brunswick. It was okay. It was nice, but wasn’t quite up to the prices they were charging.

We passed the supermarket on the way home, and I wonder if I should stop for milk, you know, since I was going right by. I didn’t want to stop, I knew I’d regret it tomorrow morning. It's funny how you do that?

Shane was out, when we returned. He desperately tries to fill in his alone hours with visits to friends, and that is where I assumed he was. 

Missy seemed desperate for food. She'd tapped on my bedroom twice and when I went to let her in, she waved her head for me to follow and scampered down the stairs. The second time I followed her. She waited for me at the foot of the stairs. Then she waited at her food bowl. She looked up at me with a catty stare.

She used to get a gourmet diet, but since I haven't been working, we've all had to economise. We have progressively worked our way down the cheaper and cheaper and cheaper cat food until, unfortunately, the last and cheapest food that I bought she won't eat.

I must remember cat food when I am at the supermarket tomorrow buying milk.