Nodding Dud at Errol Street

He had a very pungent odour. Something like a combination of B.O., cigarette smoke, piss, tomato sauce and salt & vinegar chips. A red smear on his mouth hinted at the possibility of a meat pie lunch.
He dashed of the tram at the corner of Errol St- a great achievement considering the presence of drug-induced narcolepsy.

~~~ SNIPPETS ~~~

Love with the Bloated Buddha

Mother loved once.
On a warm summer night she ironed her work shirt in the living room just in her underwear. Richard was slouching on the sofa watching Four Corners, muttering every so often his discontent with the then immigration minister Amanda Vanstone. I observed this domestic scene with a sense of affection and surprise, as anything domestic involving a man was rare in our household, especially when it involved contentedness and calm. Knowing it was a fleeting moment, I ran upstairs and grabbed my Nikon SLR, snapping a few shots before Mother could realise and object. At the bottom of the stairs, both had seen me. Mum gave me an exhausted look while Richie laughed throatily, slapping the side of his belly which was constantly bloated due to Cystic Fibrosis. He lovingly called it his Buddha.
I laughed at Richie and Mum. Mum laughed at Ritchie, and Richie laughed at everything that needn’t be taken seriously.
He passed away almost four years ago.


The Kangaroo Factory

My first night in Australia was for a 11 year old typically spent eating Arnott’s chocolate chip cookies dipped in tea while watching Neighbours and Seinfeld. Moving to Melbourne from London, I was expecting Kangaroos and desert, even though I had familiarised myself with the Melbourne city grid which hung in our toilet. Melbourne was exactly what I thought suburban US would be like, with its wide streets, nature strips, gigantic malls, rubbish-free streets and a constant stream of soaps on TV.
I arrived as the last drabs of winter subsided somewhere into space.
Plants replaced concrete. Cars replaced walking people. Red Rooster replaced the local family-run Pakistani shop. Confusion replaced other confusion.
Summer came swiftly in 1998- so swiftly that on the first 40 degree day I was still wearing my school jumper. I sweated and became lethargic, but still refused to take off the jumper.
I was teased constantly, but kept the jumper on.
When I got home that day I wrenched off the jumper and sat messily on the couch, still panting from the walk and the heat. I didn’t care. At least I didn’t give in, I thought.

The Pains of Having a Small Family

Being a member of a small brood is often thought of with misplaced longing from people who begrudge their large, loud and laborious clan.
They view the small family unit as a quiet, studious bunch who rarely engage in screaming matches, don't spend each others money, steal each others clothes, forget their manners or refuse to wash up after dinner. This is simply not true. In reality, the wars occur usually between two parties, both too stubborn to admit when they’re wrong, and without a neutral third party, the fighting continues until someone gives up and storms out because the house is too small to contain two people who are both 'right'.
I am holding small families responsible for half the car accidents which occur post battle.
Other factors which make being in a small unit painful include having less friends, less birthday presents, less Christmas gifts, less holidays and less job opportunities.
So if you are thinking of having just one child, being single or cutting off annoying family members, think again and ask yourself, do you really want to be alone while the rest of the world share Sunday roasts and have trips to the beach? Have you ever tried putting sunscreen on your own back? It’s fucking hard! Not to mention when you get sunburnt and attempt to put Aloe Vera on in the middle of your searingly painful back.
Having people around is highly beneficial to all facets of life. Don’t kid yourself into thinking that silence and solidarity is a better way to spend your days.
Excuse me for being morbid, but you will end up dying alone.

Reading...

Beautiful writing and very inspiring. How I wish I could have lived through the 1930s...I would have luncheon with James Joyce and night caps with Katherine Hepburn in the drawing room smoking European cigarettes.

Under The Skin

As it turns out, Gym girl informed minus the emotional manipulation I was expecting, that I have to GIVE them $200 to get out of my contract. For nothing! I did half expect that from those robbing bastards but I was suspending my absolute cynicism just in case things got awkward and they thought I was a horrible person. What kind of freak is rude to Gym staff?! They would have said. Not I, said I.
I wait for something interesting to happen on Facebook, even though I know it’s a futile pursuit. I’m having trouble tearing my eyes away from the screen. This is a thoroughly modern problem, and I have no solution. I sit and stare blankly at the trees outside for some time before remembering I have an ‘Autopsy: life and death’ DVD waiting for me to engross myself in. The Doctor’s name is Gunther Von Hagens and I bet he is thoroughly and brutally German. I rub my hands with glee.
Auf Wiedersehen readers, I am off to Hedelberg, Germany.

New Year rant

At the encouragement of my mum, I have come to an acceptance that the two months ahead of me will be unobstructed by responsibility or routine, something which could see me writing the next breakthrough children's book or thwart me into a state of dark and embittered solitude. What a woeful situation. The fact that I have very little money and too much time means that I will have to embrace myself and all the thoughts in my head. This is a scary prospect.
This morning I woke up and almost had an anxiety attack about how I'm going to approach telling the gym that I want to break our faltering and one sided relationship (they take my money and I never show up). There will be questions, there will be forced disappointed smiles on my part, and there will be the eventual blurting out of the truth in the end as they break my spirit with never-ending 'solutions' to my problem. I will then be forced to admit that the gym is the training ground for South Yarra's most vain, narcissistic and vacuous population. I will continue to reveal that it is also a vacuum of culture and positive personality traits most of us have come to rely on in order to function in society. Finally I'll mention that I can no longer bear to step foot over the gymnasium threshold- even in a heady moment of self-hatred which first brought me to their swarming isle of muscle and tinny music.
Sorry it had to end this way Genesis, we're just too different.
Kind regards,
Lauren Lynch.