live @ the lounge
Who are we really? Yeah, Gidday. The other morning I had just come down Steiner Hill and was braking hard to make the bottom right-hander. The tailgater was getting mighty agitated but I challenge her to take that corner any faster, steering with her knees while reading a riveting article in The Fringe with my stickshifting hand and sending an urgent text with my right indicating arm. The text was very, very urgent actually. I needed to know from Shaz if the Australian Master Chef final was on that night. I didn’t want to get all revved up if it wasn’t even on. I try to never drive uptight. I’m not an idiot. As I skilfully scrubbed off speed (yes, left foot braking) a couple of ducks took to wing and joined in. They flew in single file in front of Whitevan. The drake first, followed by, I’m guessing, his wife? What is a lady duck? Not a hen. A duchess? Anyway, I’d finished my texting by then so had my driving hand back on the wheel and my balancing arm out the window, well before the corkscrews I might add. Those ducks really flew through the winding bits with style. Banking into the bends, taking the straightest racing lines. They were cutting the corners so much I was scared they might fly head-on into a lorry. (That’s duck for truck.) It then dawned on me. They were ‘flying the road’. They knew it. They were born and raised on these roads. This was their quickest route to the harbour. Just like me, they were locals. They chose to live here. People are quite surprised to discover I’m actually a ‘Westie’ (I’m often mistaken for a Newfoundlander) and always say, “Oh I could never live way out there. There’s no sun.” “Too bloody right mate,” I say. We get about 10 months of nonstop searing sun nowadays. Damn, it’s Spring and already close to unbearable. I love the bush. I love the dappled shade our groovy trees
provide. I love the song of the birds which, surprise, surprise, live in the trees. I don’t want to live in a divided up paddock once ploughed by Dallies so they could provide affordable, fortified plonk to their neighbours. (Probably New Zealand’s first unofficial bottle stores when you think about it.) I dig the bush. Not literally dig the bush – there’s a Rahui on. I even like all the spiders’ webs that cover Whitevan’s mirrors on a daily basis. The next day I dropped by Gazzas to pick him up and go get a late breakfast. Or early lunch? There should be a name for that meal. Maybe ‘lunch fast’. “What’s eggs benedictum?” he grumbled. “Sounds like fancy git food. I can never make head nor tail of these stupid chalk wall menu things.” “Just calm down Gazza. I’ll order for us.” Mopey Jesus turned up and joined us saying he was starving as well so I ordered for the three of us. “Three English breakfasts thanks. And three flat whites while you’re at it. Ta.” Mopey Jesus raved to Gazza how cafés were the new tearooms and how he should embrace the new culture. He went on to say you can even get cold beers. “Yeah, bloody fruity posh beers,” grumbled Gazza. The waiter then brought over our order. “Three flat white coffees, gentlemen, and three pots of English breakfast tea.” Oh bugger. All the way home Gazza went on about how, back in his motherland, he would get both bacon and sausages with a full English. Mopey Jesus said, “I guess you can take the boy out of Kelston, but you can’t take London out of the man.” Locals. Who are we really? Later, Lizard.
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