Touching Mikey

“We are now leaving the free tram zone,” said the (annoying) voice over on the tram. (whose idea were those?) “Please ensure you touch on your Myki.”

It’s nice they’ve got a name for theirs, but I don’t call mine anything.

We've all been "touching on" since we were thirteen.

(Oh, you've got to do something to amuse yourself during those incessant voice-overs we now have on Melbourne trams? Whose idea were those? Catering to those who are as dumb as a box of rocks, yet again)

Truthfully, I used to screw a boy named Mikey. (Yes, I know, a grown man named Mikey, never the less) He was lovely, dark hair, gorgeous eyes, smooth skin, all over him. I can’t help but think of him when I hear that message. I remember touching Mikey very well.

Rebellious

Do you think it is a rebellious act to sit backwards on a tram when there are forward facing seats available?

I see people jump from one seat to the other as soon as the forward facing seat is vacated. 

"I can't sit backwards," she says. Visible chill. She physically shakes at the thought. "I never have been able." Her mother told her the same thing, and her mother too. 

And so it goes...

I think it is learned behaviour, rather than anything innate.

Nobody actually sat with their back to the front of the car to see if it was possible, that's what I think. They just accepted the passed down phobia unquestioned.

Super Saturday

In super Saturday bi-elections, the marginal seats of Longman in Queensland and Braddon in Tasmania, as well as the two Western Australian seats in Perth and Fremantle, the ALP retained its seats.

The South Australian seat of Mayo was also secured away from the Coalition, with the Centre Alliance notching up a significant win.

Alexander Downer’s daughter Georgina Downer contested but lost the seat of Mayo.

The person who has shown poor judgement, yet again, and who can't be trusted, by his own definition of the loser of the bi-elections by his very own words, is Malcolm Turnbull.

Malcolm is taking none of the blame. That's the way Malcolm, you keep acting like teflon Mal and we'll have a change of government in no time at all.

We took Buddy walking in the country, Lake Wendouree in Ballarat. (Also, I had to give my car a run, I haven't driven it in weeks) 

There is a track around the lake which seems to be very popular, there were lots of people doing the walk, there were lots of people doing the walk with their dogs. Apparently, it is 6 ks around. 

When we got home, we didn't hear from Bud for the rest of the night, straight to his kennel to sleep it off.

Sam's Home Sick

Sam's home sick. 

When I woke this morning, a small voice said, "I'm not feeling well."

"What?" I said. "What's wrong?"

"I'm in pain."

"Why are you in pain?" I asked. I was a bit surprised.


Apparently, he had a meningococcal vaccine with Doctor Johnny yesterday. Doctor Johnny didn’t tell Sam about the side effects. The only thing Doctor Johnny told Sam was that it was free, some sort of govt initiative, I assume. (Although, the Federal Liberal Party having some sort of health initiative is really doubtful) Sam had been googling them apparently, while I was still asleep this morning. He, apparently, has them all. Aches and pains, sore joints and sore where the needle went in.


Poor Sam.

Monday Morning

It was cold. It is winter. I set off for the office early. Walking, of course. I like to get there early so I can leave early, it is not selfless. Monday comes around so quickly, I’d forgotten how quick. The working week focusses on it.

I write my journal on my phone as I head to work. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, as they say. I catch the free tram down Collins Street. It gets stuff written where I wouldn’t write stuff before I headed to work. Little things, a swish of somebody’s hand, a look, a smell, the way somebody smiled. What I saw, the way I felt that morning, what it felt like to run. My wonky foot. The pain in my head. This Ha, ha. So, there is an upside (to work).

A beautiful Indian boy walked towards me just as I got the notes section up on my phone to write, as I walked around in front of the fire station. Flawless skin, big brown eyes. A serene look. Am I being racist even mentioning his nationality? I fleetingly think. Of course not, I think, just as quickly. How stupid can we get? Funny the things that go through your head? I think it is just a bi-product of the “outrage culture” that we now live in. (I blame it on new services selling the news as a rating commodity)

It was cold, but not as cold as it has been on recent mornings. It was grey, to be sure. I was wrapped in my warm coat. Double-breasted. Double buttons.

I was walking along wondering why I was going to work at all, if I don’t really have to go? (I should write that) What am I trying to prove? (Write that too) Is this defeat? What happened to writing? (I’m doing it) Aren’t I supposed to be writing? (Good stuff. Fiction) Is this just a huge elaborate plan to avoid writing at all?

My feet crunched on the gravel that surrounds the plain trees. I love the sound of the gravel crunching under my feet, the same way I love the sound of gravel on a driveway crunching under a car’s tyres. It makes me feel alive, granted in a quite small way. But, it is the small things in life that are important. (Watch all the small things and the big things take care of themselves…. Ah? Er? Something like that)

I decided to run down MacArthur Street, not because a tram was coming but because I think it is good for us to run every day. I slide my phone into my pocket as I quicken my pace. Besides, it is better than running when a tram is, actually, coming.

Standing at the tram stop, I pulled my phone from my pocket again, and I write some more.

The tram came pretty soon after.

I sat next to a girl with wide hips, I mean huge hips, which took up some of my seat on those narrow tram seats. I sometimes wonder how all that feels, you know, when she runs her hands down over it with a towel, or moisturiser, or something? I was glad when she got off fairly soon afterwards. Then I had the two seats to myself. Smart tram travel, never move over if the person closer to the window gets off, someone will just sit next to you, probably someone who will take up part of your seat. Those modular, easy replace tram seats are narrow.

We sailed up Collins Street in no time.

I followed a guy with a tight, sexy little bubble-butt arse squeezed into dark blue chinos, and a dark blue wool lined jacket, off the tram. Now that was an arse I could have grabbed. (Would have been much more comfortable to sit next to) Just two handfuls.

I jay-walked the main intersection. The morning black parade walked with me down Collins Street.

Winter Sun

The winter sun shone all day, warm and bright, touching my skin, the sparkle getting in. I felt the thrill. Like wearing heated milk in a glass, or honey that is runny, warmed over a flame. The blue sky was stretched out overhead, a perfect tile, enamel blue, not one cloud spoiling the hue. A glorious day. Winter, as it may. Gorgeous. Sublime. Happiness in time. How Sundays should be.

Fun was had by all. Me, Sam, Buddy got a wash and a run in the park chasing his ball. Well, chasing another dog's ball. Bud doesn't like his own balls, if you'll excuse the expression. We went out for lunch in between all of that. I moved the indoor plants around, time for a change, or just a re-arrange. I cooked pineapple muffins. Sam cooked pork. Milo slept all day in the sun, as cats do.

I love lazy days that drift away as all Sundays should. Its good.

People vs Animals

I love those people who say, incredulously, to animal lovers, well, not just animal lovers, anyone really.

"It sounds like you like animals more than you like people."

I love those types. They ask the question as though it is rhetorical, in the sense that the answer is obviously no, and the question itself is an attempt to shame someone into denying it.

They shake their heads as if it is the most outrageous thing they have ever heard.

And it is to those people that I say, just so there is no misunderstanding, 

"If you and your kid are stuck in a burning house, and my dog just happened to be in that house too," not sure why that would happen, but let's just say it did, "With a clear conscience, I'd save my dog, and if that meant you and your kid burned, so be it." 

You know, just so we are clear.

To those people who say stupid things.

People aren't that great, let's face it. Always fighting. Always hating. Waring. Killing. Letting others starve while they eat themselves to death. Too stupid not to poison the land on which they depend. Jealousy. Meanness. Small Mindedness. Racist. Letting refugees get treated badly by our government without much of a complaint. Allowing our government to fool them with tax cuts which will allow this mean spirited conservative government to cut universal medical, education and pensions by stealth, which affects the poorest of us more greatly than the rest, which allows inequality to flourish, which affects us all in the end. An unfair society is an unhappy society, let's face it.

Of course, that is not everybody, but it is true of too many of us.

So...

Give me my dog any day. They are kind and loyal and warm.

Accountant, Corporate Style

Working as an accountant, corporate style.

What can I say?

It was what I liked at school as a sixteen, seventeen, eighteen year old and before I knew what I didn’t know, I’d gone to uni and had done a degree in it. (Just as a side note, I found uni hard, lonely and difficult. I didn't have the time of my life, like I hear people say, best time of their lives, far from it) And then I became an adult and I learned what I didn’t know and I realised what it was that I really liked. As a seventeen/eighteen year old, I didn’t have a clue that I could, actually, go to uni and study poetry and creative writing, not seriously, if only I’d had that realisation, things would have been very different. 

And then it was too late (never too late, I hear you say. I did study an English degree in my thirties at night school, for interest, and it was doing that that I got a bit of a taste of the uni life that I would have liked to have had) and I was qualified in this thing at which I did okay and was, from all outside eyes, good at. But, I liked it less and less and less and less and even now I am only doing it for the money.

And I go to work and I work with the people who do the same thing as me and I think, 'Here I am, stuck here with the boring people.' Over the years, I have thought more and more that the people I work with must be the most beige people on earth to want to do what we do. And they are. They are not bad people, just dull, for the most part. (Okay, that is a little harsh. There have been some great people, of course, and there have been some first class cunts)

And even if I do say so myself, I was always the most interesting person with who I work, but then, that wasn't difficult. People loved me because I had funny things to say and had opinions on stuff. But, again, that was so much more of a comment on the people with who I work, than it really is about me. And, of course, I have offended plenty of them along the way, so much so, that I have learned to keep fairly quiet at work now a days, it is just easier that way.

You know how they say accountants are boring? Well, they don't say that for no reason (double negatives withstanding) they are, for the most part. Occasionally, you get one that slips through. Occasionally, you get one, like me, who got on the wrong bus all those years ago and has spent the rest of their working life looking out the bus window with a horrified look on their face. 

"Jesus fuck, I want to go that way, not this way, anyway, but this way."

And for the most part, corporate people aren't nice, those in position of power, that is.

So there you go, that is a short history on why 18 year old's shouldn't decide their future at 18 years of age.

Starting a new job is always hilarious in the accountant's kitchen.

"Are you married Christian?"
"Ah, no."
"What football team do you follow?"
"No, I don't follow the football."
Blank look, no response. Crickets.
I can see it written all over their faces. You are freaking me out mate! You are FREAKING me out.
"Oh... well... goo... good talking to you."
"Yeah, you too, Lachlan."

In their defence, I guess I have to say, me being gay has never been a problem. If anything, at work conference weekends when the boys are a bit drunk in the evening, they can get very inquisitive about what gay guys do.

Don't Piss Off A Gay

The girl I work with, Melissa, had been giving me the shits all day.

I had to make up some new folders for storing reports, start of the new financial year and all that.

Melissa is a self professed OCD. Funny how self profession absolves one from all responsibility of the professed affliction.

So, as I said she’d been pissing, me off. I didn’t say anything, I just put all of the labels on the spines on the folders just slightly crooked.

I saw he fingers twitch and her hands wring when she saw them. She looked at the folders and then she looked at me, opened and then closed her mouth, then she looked at the folders again.

I said nothing.

I lay in bed this morning, wondering if the folders will have new labels when I get in on Monday.

Cute Brad

Brad, the solid office services boy, bent over in front of me just as I was heading out of the office. He bent at the hips, which made his large arse look even larger. He had on what looked like big undies under his work trousers, but with his bum I’m guessing that isn’t an option. I could see the outline of the elastic around each of his legs, forming what looked like huge jocks.

Brad with his red hair and his flushed cheeks.

I wanted to goose him. Perhaps, get the tip of my finer into the indentation of his arse crack. He’d come up like one of those toy birds drinking from the cup of water, on speed. (chuckle) See his red-flushed cheeks then.

What noise would he make? “Ooooo!”

I can’t help but picture him as a Rubenesque boy in an oil painting naked, his alabaster skin, his man-boobs, his tummy rolls, a piece of chiffon carefully draped over his crotch, just a hint of red pubes. His thick, hairy thighs.

I don’t know why I am fascinated with him?

I think it is the way his swishes his big arse when he walks. Is it his cheeks that are always flushed red like he is permanently embarrassed? Or is it his demeanour? He is quiet and rather serious. It’s as though he has a secret, like he is a compulsive masturbater. Or he has a problem with sweating and he is always moist. Or he still lives at home and his mother still insists on talcing him up after a shower. She’d hold the towel up for him as he gets out from under the water. She’s a problem sweater too, it’s where he gets it from. He’d call her mummy. She’d breath through her mouth. Maybe he wears women’s underwear under his brown work slacks? Pink lace against his fair skin. Maybe he collects frogs. He pins them to a board and calls them his little lovelies.


(Oh, come on, you try working as an accountant in a corporate office, I’ve got to do something to make the {read boring (that is a little unfair, however)} people I work with more interesting. I think stuff about them all the time. If they could read my mind. {chuckles to himself})

Brad does have the sweetest smile, kind of out the side of his mouth, almost as if it is always despite himself. A reluctant smile is always hot.

Thank the Universe We Can Stop Hearing About That

I'm so pleased that those boys have been rescued from that cave, because everyone deserves to be rescued, of course. But, mostly I am pleased that those boys have been rescued from that cave, so everyone can stop talking about it. 

I was so sick of it by the end. (I am sure we are due all the postmortems yet, and a 60 minutes Where Are They Now special in a month)

Children stuck in a cave, every news outlets wet dream. It doesn't matter that it really had nothing much to do with any of us, or Australia, because news is now a commodity to sell, and news must rate. It is an absurd notion that the news must rate.

That story should have been, twelve boys and their coach were lost in a cave in Thailand. Then, a week later, the 12 boys and their coach were rescued. Yay! That should have been it. Two news articles covering the story.

What we got was a circus. A media circus with everyone vying for ratings. It turned into a living, breathing entity all of its own there for a while.

And now it is over. Yay.

Of course, I wish them well, but enough already.

Walking The Dog

It was cold, it was early. I was walking up Gertrude Street, it was 7.30am. There weren't many people around. I was one of the first on their way to work and all that. Not for any noble reason, you understand, not diligence, not hard work, not because of any strong work ethic, no, I leave early in the morning because I wake up early anyway, and then I can leave early in the afternoon, get it over and done with and get home, ahead of the great unwashed.

There was a couple in matching dark blue puffer jackets and dark blue tracksuit pants walking their black Labrador coming towards me. A professional couple walking their dog before they head to the respective offices, I thought. That looked kind of smart, matching outfits on which they'd spent some cash. She was blonde and athletic, the type, I felt, who would wear active gear a lot. He was a big, strapping guy and his dark blue track pants were just tight enough for me to see why she liked him.

Walking to work. The streets are quite empty when I leave for work.

Maybe, I'm Just Grumpy At The End Of The Work Day

I jaywalked across Collins Street to catch the tram coming up the hill from Spencer Street, which I wanted to catch. I wanted to get home.

A tram was coming in the other direction, down Collins Street, which bing bing binged me as I ran across in front of it. Oops! I thought it was stopping at the tram stop, but it wasn't. I misjudged that, however, it was taking off, it was still a long way away from me, it wasn’t really a close call.

I slipped across in front of it and ran up the tram stop on the other side of the street, when I heard a voice. I didn’t really realise he was talking to me, I just kind of turned towards a voice. 

It was a paramedic, who was riding a motorcycle up Collins Street, just as it happened. He said something to me, it was something smart, I am guessing, but I didn’t really catch it. It would have been along the lines of, “Dying to get home are we, mate,” or some such quip. It was tantamount to a telling off for what I had just done.

Groan.

Give some guy a uniform and a title and they think they are important. And to think, he would have been offended if I’d told him to fuck off. Self importance is sickening, and in epidemic proportions today, no matter what guise it comes in. Just turn up when you are called, little man, and perform the service for which you are paid, otherwise shut the fuck up.

Or, maybe I am just grumpy at the end of a work day.

Nyr?

Could be either.

On the tram - oh yes, I have been delving into my box of photo effects again

Out Shopping. Victoria Street Richmond, under the awning

Walking the dog, looking at the street art

Trolling

Sometimes, I like trolling the right-wing trolls. You know, those dumb cunts who blindly follow something particularly stupid. I don’t do it that often, you understand, as I normally have better things to do with my time, but just occasionally. Maybe, on a lazy Thursday morning (The beginning of my weekend) with a coffee and an hour to kill, it can be fun.

I don’t usually go in for blood sports, but sometimes I can be sucked into it. You’ve got to be somewhat kind to dumb animals, we all know that.

You can't ever respond to what they say directly. You just have to make your quips and get out. You can’t get obsessed, no, that is draining. You really do need to know when to say no more. You want them to bleed tears, not you. If I get cross, I know I have failed

It has to be for amusement. Why else do I do it? can’t just let their bigoted, homophobic, sexist, whatever comments stand without an opposing view. But you can't answer them, it has to be despite them. You can't get sucked in, you have to just give your view, irrelevant to them. If you answer them directly, you are heading down the path of insanity and bigotry.

Recently, there has been publicity about a men’s group, I’m not going to use their real name, as, quite frankly, I don’t want to give them any publicity – you know, amongst my two readers. We shall call them Scared Little Men Looking Backwards.

This is a group who thinks men are being marginalised and that feminism is the cause. But, of course. They believe in natural male masculinity – yes, I know, so much to unpack there, but let’s just go with it. Men are superior, women belong in the kitchen, yap, yap yap. They believe violence is perfectly okay to settle arguments and disputes. Apparently, a man isn’t a real man until he has had broken a heart, had his heart broken, had his head punched in and has punched in another guy’s head.

So, I made a comment about them being scared little boys, that you could almost hear the grunts and the knuckles dragging as they speak. That they are far from real men, just Neanderthals acting out.

Of course, I blame it on the failure of parenting over the last forty years. I think a lot of things can be blames on lousy parenting by the last crop of parents, but that is another story.

One of the “said” men said something about me being a soy latte sipper. (That seems to be the bogun’s default answer, soy latte sipper. It used to be leftard but now it is soy milk. Oh! Burn!)

I responded with, Don’t get me wrong, mate, I am all for you guys getting into your little bro groups to tug each other off on a regular basis.

Some guy told me I was being homophobic.

I’m guessing you don’t know what homophobic means, I replied.

Another woman supported me by saying that these men had better never discover where milk comes from, as it comes from estrogen heavy female cows. That would likely blow their minds – a very sensible and measured response to the misogynistic, toxically aggressive, sexist men’s group.


Then a (bogun) Perth woman told (the sensible, measured woman) she was the kind of woman Scared Little Men Looking Backwards warned everyone about. She yapped on about how the pendulum had swung too far against men and how (the sensible, measured woman) was part of the problem.

So, I simply asked (the Perth bogun) her how it felt to be a woman who disappoints other women?


Haha... buuuuurn... good one... said Mark. That’s honing your craft.


So, she responded with, “How do you feel about disappointing your father and grandfather. You are clearly a disappointment to all the men in your family. I feel fine (about herself).”

She obviously thought she could say whatever she liked to me. I could almost taste her smarmy, self-satisfied side coming out. So, the gloves came off. You want to take me on, do you?
So, I said that maybe she needed to get smacked about by one of Scared Little Men Looking Backwards before she felt anything. (Yes, I can see the problem with that statement, but she’d activated my nasty (gay) bitch side by this stage. Besides, if she chooses to support a violent men’s group at the same time putting other women down, she needs to have that support thrown back in her face. Besides, I told you I was trolling.)

“Who said Scared Little Men Looking Backwards abused women,” was her response. (They believe that violence is fine to solve disputes, in fact desirable, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a step too far for some of them)

You just put Scared Little Men Looking Backwards and abusing woman into the same sentence, I thought, my work here is done.

She was triggered. (nirvana) My comment had made her angry. She yapped on with a whole bunch of responses, who did I think I was. How dare I?

I withdrew. Nothing more needed to be said.

She repeated me letting down the men in my family.

Then she yapped on about women who claim to be assaulted and never report it until years later and only then to get money out of men. How did I feel about that? (Her grammar and spelling collapsing the more she wrote)

She said men were being marginalised in this day and age.

Then she told me I was homophobic. (I think some of these plonkers think that if a gay comment is directed towards them then that is homophobic)

Then when I didn’t answer, she put an angry face on her reply to my comment. Then she put angry faces on all of her comments.

But, I’d left the conversation by then.

Who knows what she wrote after that.

Sip coffee. Chuckle… Christian


Mark – Who are Scared Little Men Looking Backwards?

Christian – Scared Little Men Looking Backwards masculinity are a men’s group who believe in the reinstatement of the natural order of. According to them, a real man breaks a heart, has his heart broken, bashes another man's head in, and gets his head bashed in by another man in order to be a man. She was defending them. Oh yes, of course, and woman should be home in the kitchen, and men should be the providers, yap, yap, yap. Feminism is the enemy.

Mark – Oh....I would just get incensed with all that, I don’t have the composure I’m afraid...

Christian – We watched a doco on them on SBS. Sam and I sat there watching it in silence, mouths open. It is being imported from the great US of A, of course. Oddly, they are pro gay.

Mark – When I look at most of the trolling, it’s all done by fat middle aged white boguns, they all look like they’ve been churned out of a sausage machine.

Christian – thanks

Mark – What?

Christian – I just told you I'd been trolling

Mark – You’re not a bogun...😆

Mark – And you’re not trolling...

Christian – How could you live and be as dumb as these people. If they have to write more than two words, the grammar and spelling becomes illegible.

Mark – Keep taking money from education...that’ll do it...

Christian – yes, indeed. It is criminal, isn't it. The Liberal Party has a lot to answer for.

Mark – How anyone could vote for the Liberal Government is beyond me.

Christian – but, I am guessing, the conservative politicians don't want the electorate to be too smart anyway.

Mark – Time for my fwesh john gin joo and sourdough veggie toe’ist.

Christian – lubbly. I had muesli and quinces. And a bottomless cup of coffee. Speaking of which...

Look at that sunrise, just gorgeous

The Cute Boy Is Back

Cute Declan is back at work, with his leg cast and his bandaged arm. He had screws and a plate put into his hand. He looks like a wounded soldier, back from the "front" all bandaged up.

I made sure I asked how he was. Nudge. Wink. Got to ask the cute boy how he is. He said he was okay. He said his motor bike isn’t.

He told us about the accident. A car came out from the right, didn’t see him, he went over on his left hand side, crashing onto the road. And the next thing he knew he was in hospitable and he was getting his pants cut off him. Is it wrong that I started to feel turned on at that point?

Stupid Me

Oh, I need to get used to working in an office again. Shake of the head.

I stood and read the newspaper in the kitchen at the bench where the newspapers are kept for doing just that, next to which was a chocolate waffle in a plastic bag. Now let me just say, this is the area where they leave all the leftover food to be eaten, from whatever meetings, or functions that may have happened in the adjoining meeting rooms, although a single waffle in a plastic bag is not generally the style of food that is left. Normally, it is what is left of a platter of sandwiches, or a plate of pastries. 

Never the less, I had never had a chocolate waffle before, so I broke a bit off and ate it, as I sipped my coffee and turned the page of the newspaper nonchalantly.

The next thing, one of the guys is standing next to me saying something. “That wasn’t like that when I left it.”

Truthfully, there were other people who’d come into the kitchen with him and I thought he was speaking to somebody else and I took very little notice.

Then I realised he was holding up the waffle in the clear plastic bag.

Oh, I think.

“This wasn’t like this?”

I continued to act as though he was talking to somebody else. I kept reading. I didn’t react. Oh, fuck me, that must be his waffle. Stupid me. I kept reading. Turning pages, not reacting. Why did I do that?

He pulled the waffle out of the bag and held it up. “No, definitely not like that when I left it.”

I stared at my newspaper, I still didn’t react, not for a minute. Really, I felt completely embarrassed. Stupid me, how could I be so dumb? I should have just owned it and apologised. Oh, I am so sorry, I just didn’t think, please forgive me. That is what I should have said. But I didn’t. I was caught off guard. I froze, over the stupidest thing, I know, really. I just made it worse, if anything, but that was what I did.

And then he was gone. I was hoping my face hadn’t flushed red with embarrassment. I’m pretty sure it didn’t.

Big Bum Brad

I say hello to the services boy, Brad, this morning as I head to the kitchen. Red hair, cheeks flushed red. He has really a big arse and tight pants that stretch across his big, beefy butt. (I always think of my old friend Fergus when I see a boy with a big, beefy arse. Fergus used to say that we have to be nice to new fathers, as they are in need, and we should be nice to boys with big arses as they are a gift from the universe) He’d look good in his jocks, (Brad, not Fergus. We know gymed up Fergus always looked good in his jocks) I reckon, he’d be tumbling out of them. (Brad, are you keeping up?) Red heads traditionally have big todgers, it is the universes way of making up for everything else it did to them. (I’ve always found them to smell funny too, but from my, extensive research {too many pots down the Laird followed by obvious pointing and slurring} that may just be me. Maybe, I have a chemical mismatch with gingers?)

I saw him in Myer shopping on Saturday, I’d recognise those chubby red cheeks anywhere. I went to say hello to him, but he didn’t seem to recognise me and besides his name went straight out of my head. Brad. Big bum Brad. Red hair, but kind of blokey with it. He’d have thick, pale thighs and red pubes.

“Were you shopping in Myer on Saturday?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I went to say hello, but I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Brad.”

“Hi, I’m Christian.”

He said he thought he’d lost his car keys when I saw him and he was in a mild state of panic. It turned out his partner had them, who I presume is a girl. Funny, when a guy says his partner, I always picture a nice boyfriend for him.

Chubby 25 year old Brad, with the boyish face, would have an older boyfriend, somebody in his thirties, who’d be the out-going one. Brad would be the quiet one, who’d be led by the hand by his gregarious boyfriend, Tim, maybe. With those lips, he’d be an excellent cock sucker. (Brad, not Tim) Although, Tim would really love his chuddy young red haired boyfriend. Tim would show Brad the world. They’d get a dog, Alfie, the Labrador, and they’d buy a house in Preston. They’d shop at the market, with a wheelie trolley on the weekends.

Funny the things you think.

“Nice to meet you,” says Brad.

“I’m new," I say. "I started a month ago.”

“Welcome,” says Brad. He smiles. He heads to the lifts, as I head to the kitchen to get my morning coffee.

Morning Sun

Going To Get The Car

Jill and I head to Essendon to get my car. I tell Jill as we are heading over that we were going to Satan’s lair. She gives me side eye.

“Who?”

“You know?”

“I thought you were keeping better company?”

“What can you do?” I say. "When the houses plummeting from the sky keep missing him?"

We both laugh.

“I don’t have to go in, do I?” says Jill.

“Nobody is going in?”

“I don’t want to go in?”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “That is why we are going early.”

“I’m just saying…”

“The fork tine puncture holes playing up?”

She rubs her forehead. “Only when I am around him…”

“Like Harry Potter’s lightening flash around Voldemort.”

“Like Harry Potter’s flash when Voldemort is around,” says Jill.

The sun shines. It is an easy drive. It is very exciting, I hadn't had to do this for years. Jill’s off to Queensland, she is driving up with a friend and Bear, of course. I was supposed to drive up with her, but I accidently got a job. “Damn your pesky job,” she says.

“Weren’t you supposed to get a job too?”

“Yeah, something like that,” says Jill.

“We were both supposed to get jobs,” I say.

“What can I say?” says Jill.

“You’ve let the side down?”

“How about, I’m going to the beach.”

Grrrr. “I’ll think of you when I am dashing through the cold streets of Melbourne Monday morning.”

“Do,” says Jill.

My favourite red brick church is on the way. Favourite architecturally, not spiritually, you understand. I am partially to red brick buildings. It was empty, by the look of it, anyway. The collapsing Christian congregation, it is a good thing. So many less stupid people hoodwinked by mythology. It can only lead to a better society. Freedom for all.

I feel okay, but I wonder if I am still over, as my car fires into life. You know, as people still are. Is it called the Sunday Morning Effect? Shrug. The sky is blue, the sun is bright. I feel chipper, none the less. Surely, the police have better things to do this morning.

Jill follows me home.

We drive home along Park Street Brunswick to see if any of the houses were for sale. None are. I want to move there one day when the inner suburbs get too chaotic. Thank you Matthew Guy for ruining the inner suburbs with your unchecked approvals for property developers.

We eat breakfast at Arcadia. Jill, and I, have pancakes with berries and mascarpone cream. Sam has some sort of Mexican Wrap with beans and guacamole, which looks healthy. And coffee, of course there is coffee.