Edward Charles

A Basket For Your Thoughts

edWard CharLes arT By PauLine Wong

When buying a washing basket, it is worth considering several things: do I buy the threedollar standard basket or the ten-dollar hiphugging basket? Do my hips really need to be hugged? Am I allowed to bring a washing basket on the bus? Will people call out my name and rebuke my very existence? The fellow Kmart shoppers gave me a wide berth as I hogged the aisle in contemplation. Perhaps it didn’t matter so much, but still I was reluctant to be faced with a confrontational bus driver telling me I was forbidden from bringing large plastic clothes carriers on his line.

Mid-vision of a Transperth security guard tackling me to the ground for my transgressions against humankind and The Department of Transport, I felt a moment of weakness.

I needed external validation.

Anonymous validation (albeit the most satisfying) was not readily available to me, so I decided to consult my followers on the allknowing Instagram as to whether this was an appropriate thought to entertain. Was I really asking people whether I can take a washing basket on public transport? Had I lost my mind?

I posed the question to my followers nonetheless and wondered whether any of this truly mattered. Not in an existential-crisis-inthe-middle-of-Kmart way but more of a wowtechnology-has-pushed-me-to-new-heightsof-ridiculousness way. Nevertheless, I decided that perhaps all of this didn’t matter and so I bought the three-dollar standard basket without even waiting for a response from the digital comforter. I felt like a new man; one who was in control of their own spending habits and decision-making. I knew my hips were well-loved and sure enough I was on my merry way to the bus station holding my washing basket by my side.

No one stared at or berated me. In fact, I felt that perhaps this was the most peace I had ever experienced walking through the Perth CBD. Much like the Kmart shoppers, people seemed to walk far around me to avoid being seen with a three-dollar plastic monstrosity. No one called my name, no one tackled me to the ground. This pure unadulterated bliss was one like no other. This lack of negative reaction from the public was not only a comforter but also the anonymous validation that I had been craving earlier.

In this moment of realisation, I figured that sometimes someone not saying anything about a stranger is more validating than a known person saying something kind to a friend. This of course is subjective to the situation; but when losing your mental composure over a washing basket, perhaps it is nice to remain name/less.