Depressed I Eat Twisties

The kitchen bench was littered with dirty dishes, I didn’t do my job last night. Bad me. Sam tut tuts.

Sam made porridge, or oats, as he calls them. With banana, the bananas I bought at Woolies on Sunday night when I made the banana cake. I make the coffee.

Sam leaves before me, as he always does. It takes me fifteen minutes to get to work, door to door. Driving. I still want to walk.

I’m not waiting for the cars coming along my street any more as I back out, it is my new resolution, unless it is absolutely necessary, you know to avoid an accident. Otherwise, I just sit and wait for the “rat racers” to rat race through my suburb, good for them, and then I have to sit behind them while they turn right into Gertrude Street anyway. I’m taking a stand. They’d be the first to complain if we raced through their suburbs. Shitervoir or Crap Park. It takes me ten minutes, sometimes more, to drive a few metres and to get out of my street, while the tourists take a short cut. That hardly seems fair? Or am I just grumpy?

The rubbish trucks seemed to be gathering around Smith Street, at the end of my street and at the end of Little Oxford, like a fleet having just been sent out, blocking traffic. I don't know why, rubbish day is Wednesday. What would the collective noun be for rubbish trucks? A compact?

I watched the ugly girl, with her beehive hair, in a bottle green velvet smock, drink her coffee in Mollison Street, with a life time of weight anguish etched across her fat cheeks. She looked like Kelly Osbourne before her make over, as our eyes met momentarily.

I heard the magpies sing in Murray Street, it reminded me of mornings up the farm as a child with my horrible auntie. I gave her her allocation of thought for the decade wondering if she was dead, it brought a smile to my face, at least. If she was dead, I hoped it was painful. It is the only time I think of those days, when the magpies sing.

I watched the sexy boy walk in Victoria Street eating a roll, strolling down the footpath away from me in his black trousers. His cake hole bit at the bread the same way as his arse hole chewed of the black wool mix.

I drove passed the old Vauxhall Hydromatic in McKay Street. Lovely she is too, despite her new number plate, with her faded black paint. I wondered who drove her? I wondered where she’d been in the last fifty years?

I waved to Shirl, if only figuratively, in Buckingham Street, at her post, in her too-big be-seen-be-safe jacket and her lollipop stop sign in her hand. There she was at the edge of the road as she was every morning.

I turned right instead of left in Burnley Street, it is my new strategy, still in development, still being tested. Turning right cuts out four back streets with their respective turns. I’m thinking it must be faster, it has to be, surely. (don’t call me Shirley)

I watched the olive skinned boy ride his bike with his bike helmet hanging over the handlebars. I wanted to yell out, “put your helmet on you idiot,” but then I decided I didn’t care if his head squashed on the road like a ripe melon. It is the survival of the fittest, after all. It is the problem with the world, the further we get away from the survival of the fittest, the less likely we are to survive as a species. We should let the dumb perish, it is evolution, after all.


I park with a view of the river on the east side of the building, every morning. The sun melts over me like a warm honey blanket, as I head to the door with my satchel in my hand. I go through the sales room, I’m still not sure if I am allowed. Some mornings one, or other, of the sales people can give me an inquisitive look as though they are surveying a stranger new to them, which doesn’t put me at ease about permission. I should ask, but quite frankly, really don’t care that much. Someone will eventually tell me off, someone with an authority complex whose penis is too small, or who’s vagina is too shallow. The fat girl with the dark hair, who always seems to be there, who always seems to look up, I expect one day it will be her, but thus far she has remained mute, nothing more than the evil eye. 

I cast a quick eye around to see if cute Will, or cute Dashal are in? Will is earnest and intense, Dashal is handsome and funny. I’d like to marry Dashal. I’d like to lick Will’s arse.


Then there I am, fully fitted back into my pod, in the office with the others in their pods. Dutifully. At 8.30am. Like the good boy am I. And the good girl’s are they.

I opened up the sultana container and ate one at a time, all morning. One by one. What else is there to do? The constant flow of sweetness is a comfort.

How did I settle for this? I think as I gazed out over the grey laminex and the blue carpet, the grey office machinery and the potted plants and the strip of windows across the wall. It is good, at least, that we have nice big windows.

It is balancing day, so there is a lot of checking to be done. Then when it is finished it is suggested that I put my HR hat back on. I have no idea what I am supposed to be doing next.

I had my lunch box that Sam prepared for me, chicken curry and braised cabbage and vegetables. How did I end up in this work? I think. The lemon lunchroom walls close in around me. Then it is after lunch and time to go back. Depressed I eat Twisties.

I decided just in the last day, or so, after ignoring the election pretending it had nothing to do with me, that I should say my piece, do my bit. Abbott is an embarrassment and a fool. So, I wrote on Facebook… as well as here,

Apparently, the seat of Melbourne, now being a marginal seat, is crucial to Labour winning office. We have a chance to send the major parties a message by voting Green again. We should give them another hung parliament to tell them we don't like any of them.

Having said that, I am going to vote for The Australian Labor Party for the following reasons.

Although, having said that, I am voting for the Labor Party, because they are going to give me the NBN. The economy is doing well, I believe in the carbon tax, or ETS. We are least likely to have racist policies when it comes to refugees, probably only just I grant you, with the Labor Party. I don't believe giving wealthy women money for nannies is in the best interest of all Australians. I think the likes of Gina Reinhart and her mining buddies should be taxed with a wealth tax for the benefit of all Australians - I think the banks should be next. I don't want the ABC to be destroyed. I don't want medicare dismantled. I believe that high earners should be taxed more before the GST is increased. I believe welfare should be increased. I believe that the party that is most likely to decrease the gap between the rich and the poor should be in power.



We had spaghetti carbonara for dinner. Sam suggested that I help him with the cooking. I reminded him of the conversation we had last night, after he refused to wash any dishes.

“You made it very clear last night that you cook and I clean,” I said. “So, I am not helping with the cooking.”

“Really!” he protested.

“I always help you with the cooking,” I return protested. “And you never help with the cleaning…”

“Really! Is that what you think?”

“Yes, that is what I think…”

“I think about it, I plan it, more often than not I buy it and I cook it,” he said. “And you think I should help clean up as well.”

I’m not sure if that is strictly true but, you know, it is true enough that I know when to shut my mouth. I’m not stupid.

I mix the sour cream, the eggs and the rest of that party of the recipe. I pour it over the spaghetti that Sam has added to the bacon in the frying pan.

He smiles at me.

I smile at him.