Australia – Chris Collins

What the Folk?

I’m sure that pun has been done before. But I have been getting my folk on over the Merrie Month of May and it has raised thoughts and questions that I’m pondering through. Thus I need to write it out and see what you think!

Easter weekend, I danced Morris at the National Folk Festival in Canberra. A five-day folk festival, and incredibly, one that was a fifteen-minute tram ride from me house and had absolutely no mud. Hard for an English girl to get her head round – surely you’re supposed to get up at the crack of dawn and spend four tense hours in the car crawling past Stonehenge on a single track road to get to a festival in time for the first set, and woe betide anyone who forgot their wellies. Mud is such a feature of British festivals that a whole couture has sprung up in designer rubber footwear. So imagine a purpose built festival ground. Not a farmer’s field that gets churned to shit and swamped in so much rubbish that whole eco systems are destroyed annually, but one with logical paths between stages; purpose-built exhibition buildings with stages in them, bars and so much seating. It was so clean!

Unlike me who was dressed in black and sweatily capering about in what they said was 24 degrees but dammit, felt like a hell of a lot more.

So what’s Morris like down under? Well.

I must first say that at the National Folk Festival, Australia mustered up a whole five sides. My Australian Morris friends correct me here – the purpose of the folk festival is to showcase regions, so they specifically invite certain sides from certain states (yeah, and make them largely pay for their own tickets); this year was Big Fella and Little Fella, so (a) side from the enormous state of Western Australia and then Surly Griffen from little ol’ Australian Capital Territory. And of course, the sides from Brisbane, Sidney and Melbourne that won’t be discouraged from any opportunity to get their jig on. So I get that…but after festivals in tiny places like Rochester, Wimborne, Oxford, Swanage with close on a hundred sides with their varied costumes, colours and pageantry, Australia’s festival lacked that immense diversity.

But it did mean everyone knew each other. They all camped together, ate together, drank together and there was a lovely, close family atmosphere. Er, here I must say honestly that it was a family atmosphere if you were in the family; coming in as an outsider to these extremely nice and friendly people was a little harder. I think I personally mistimed me drinking. That early afternoon high of bombing a couple of pints, then the evening dip after pausing. ALWAYS carry on through! But these lovely chaps had grown up together, danced together, known each other for years, and as some of them are separated by the miles of mountains and desert between Melbourne and Brisbane, at festivals they’re very preoccupied with catching up and hanging out. Of course they would be. Ya know, next time will be better.

Now Australian Morris is really into Cotswolds. Hmm. It’s never been me favourite style. And as I often take a sort of ironical approach to any earnestness in Morris dancing, pointedly glazing over when someone starts telling me about villages in Northamptonshire (about which I frankly couldn’t give two shits and it seems particularly ludicrous ten thousand miles away), and I find Cotswolds dancers take themselves very seriously. For a bunch of chaps with bells on. But my my, can the Australians dance it. Watching the likes of Bell Swagger (freakin’ great name) and Black Joak, this must have been what it was like in England in the old days! Vigorous leaping, shouts, strength, grace, my god did it make me want to join in. The old fellas in England would be trembling their bells to hanky-needing climaxes if they had seen it. It’s exactly what they’re talking about as they heavily lean their rotund bellies over my chair in pubs to tell me all about the dance form I’ve been doing for four years.

Or is it? Because these sides have women; tall, strong, beautiful Australian women who add a uniformity to the set by their height and strength and they kick and leap about on light feet better than any man I’ve ever seen in England. Most of the sides were a rough fifty-fifty split and just dispensed with all that nonsense about women not being allowed because Morris here started after Emancipation, instead of before. And it’s a much smaller crowd, so they just include everyone who has the folky interest. And because they all know each other and because they are slaves to the Cotswolds traditions (about which they know far more than me…see above note in parenthesis), they can all join in each other’s dances, which is quite lovely indeed.

So I came away from the folk festival actually wanting to learn hanky dances which was an extraordinary turn up for the books. But only so I could dance them in Australia. But to reflect on it all, there did seem to be an almost crippling self-consciousness in the clinging to the older Cotswolds traditions. I’ve always found that to be the more sanitised side of Morris; the kind that goes to church and won’t necessarily be found in the dark brandishing flaming torches (does one ever do anything else with a flaming torch?), drinking heavily and communing with some kind of more ancient, less definite thing. Where the hell was the border Morris?

I am assured that Border exists in Australia. When I attend the Huon Valley Midwinter Festival (gleeeee!!) in July, I expect there’ll be a lot more of the burning shit and creepy costumes. Border has always seemed to be the more progressive – even the name suggests it is the pushed aside, marginalised people that have had to forge a space of harmony between things. Well look, that’s my interpretation, and yes, I know about bloody Wales and protecting frontiers. Border sides mostly always have women, do more painting and costume (if it’s about disguising yourself with paint and rags so you can hide not only your face from your employer as you beg for money, why not your gender?) and there is a more pagan, earthy feel to it. It’s also the way Morris is progressing in England; you can be a catch-all for the folkies and the goths and more young people are interested in that style of dance. It’s the style (in England) of the young, and more Border sides are started up that Cotswolds.

Cut to England and I wake up on a narrowboat with the croak of an owl at four in the morning on May the first. Into the blue light in our bells, we step off and I’m drowning in the song of blackbirds and I have forgotten how beautiful they are. Driving towards the beacon at the end of the ancient Icknield way, we encounter a large deer on the lane, then arrive on Pitstone hill amid the yellow glow of a carpet of cowslips and New Moon Morris dance and sing the glowing red ball of light up. I can feel spring.

In Rochester that weekend, a hundred sides in different colours, ribbons and feathers are celebrating the May-o and diversity and colour are the sign of English Morris. Ok, not proper diversity, Morris dancers are still resoundingly white and English, but there is a huge mix of styles and colour. The immense percussive orchestra of the Witchmen boom out across the streets and you find your legs running towards the sound to see what’s going on and you are not disappointed. But my favourite discovery this year was a brand new Morris side called Hugin and Munnin – a pair of dancers and one musician who dress as crows (after the Norse myth of Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munnin that follow him in battle and fly out around Midgard each morning to bring him news from across the worlds) and did some crazy shit with sticks and shields, and god knows what was going on with the big black bollock balloons that came out and ate people’s heads.

But this is what Morris is about for me. Two people starting up a new side in whatever tradition they fancy, bringing in whatever ancient mythology floats their respective boats, thinking about the spectacle, and incorporating a bit of heavy metal into Morris. Fuck yes dudes, fuck yes. Folk must grow and follow the folk and their culture. Otherwise it fossilises into the elite or the useless.

And Australia seems to have not got there yet. Perhaps it’s still establishing and then when it’s secure, it will move to the next phase. You know, like after the rise of capitalism, there is the inevitable rise of the workers. Yeah, just like that. There are new sides arising in Australia – I had the privilege to witness the birth of one at the Folk Festival. But it was a side of garland dances. Sigh. I can stick a garland dance even less than a hanky dance. But bloody hell, this was amazing! Imagine in May, the frothing of hawthorn over the hedgerows and young, lithe, beautiful girls gather blossoms and weave them into garlands and into their hair and dance. What could be more beautiful? Well, when done by ancient women in a grey town centre, which is the only way I’ve ever seen it done, a hell of a lot could be more beautiful. But in Canberra on that special evening, with fire circles giving light and heat, out stepped an amalgamation of young girls and men from several sides wreathed in green and silver with gold fairy lights in their hats; they danced beautifully and I thought I was on the bankside in a cowslip’s bell where the bee sucks and all the fairies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream were dancing for Titania. It was beautiful.

Australia is reviving Morris and doing it properly. But now it needs to grow. It needs the courage to start something new. Miles Franklin found that her niche as a writer was not regurgitating the castles and grey moors of Europe. It was ‘off her own hook,’ by making something new, embracing her landscape. So Australian Morris; that is your next step.

Secret City (hiding the Secret of its soul)

I have, of course, joined a book club. And our first book is the above titled Secret City; a thriller about political subterfuge and scandal in Canberra. I imagine the Brexit equivalent would wilt in comparison. The verdict? In a nutshell: pile of wank.

There is a Foxtel series based on this book. And no doubt it’s very compelling; I’m looking forward to watching some of it myself. Because by watching scenes of Canberra, filmed with well timed lighting, with real people to represent characters, you can engage your own emotional responses where the writers’ choice to not really bother describing anything frankly failed to do so.

Canberrans who have seen bits of this show do find it a bit of a chuckle. It portrays our small little town (beautiful and remarkably well designed, but little nonetheless) as somewhere glossy, sophisticated and impeccably suave. Which from what I’m gathering has about the same impact on a native as a show about the suave and imperatively important life of a bunch of people working in Chelmsford local council would. The writing does the same; name dropping places with the carelessness of a toddler with lego, adding adjectives to help you out because no one really knows Canberra – ‘prestigious,’ ‘stylish,’ ‘sophisticated,’ ‘exclusive.’ Which conspires to kill your very imagination and effort to find a bit of soul in the place. The descriptions of places are done without heart, without love, just bland one-worders that create a half-hearted image of somewhere cool and interesting. Like when you walk past an All Bar One after a long day at work, and think it looks all fun and stylish with people drinking cold wine in nice shoes and there are fairy lights and warm wood surfaces…but it quickly passes because you remember the atmosphere is about as barren as a salt field and you congratulate yourself on a lucky escape; nice shoes and tall wine glasses are not for you and you retire thankfully to your local that smells a bit and get a pint of warm ale. Because it has soul.

Soul in a place is important and I am worried this book has killed my poetic imagination of soul in Canberra.

I like to read about places. I like to immerse myself; building a construct, a sense of beauty and wonder about a place that I can romanticise is half the anticipation of travel. It’s how I connect to place. These two writers; ex political journalists, must have been excellent headline writers with their sassy verb and adjective choices, but they are not great writers. Miles Franklin, Kim Scott, even fucking Lawrence (and as you may know, I have a lot of opinions about D.H. Lawrence, but damn me, at least he creates a sense of place) actually bother to inspire you with a bit of love in a setting. These two didn’t. And to be great literature, writing must do that, as people and place are tied intrinsically, constantly referring to the other to create the human experience.

Perhaps I’m totally over thinking the thriller genre. Great Literature is not its scope. It just makes me cross that good writers wouldn’t bother. And Henning Mankell made a better job of creating atmosphere and engendering the whole scandi-noir genre, so there’s no excuse. Now: the nitty gritty. The book was hideously formulaic. Every new character introduced had a one paragraph fecking CV; description of their degree and previous ten years, peppered with adjectives like ‘high flying,’ ‘razor sharp mind’ and ‘holy roller’ so you get the idea that, you know, this guy’s a big deal. After that, nothing else they either did or said did a damn thing to develop that one dimensional character any further. Sloppy. So imagine my surprise when I read the blurb for the third book (yes, it’s still not fucking over) introducing ‘loveable journalist Harry Dunkley.’ He wasn’t loveable!! He was a bland bloke whose love of ‘chasing down a good yarn’ and ‘getting the papers in the morning’ was described at least four times in exactly the same goddamn way as if that sufficiently constitutes a personality. An effort to give him depth was the throw away mention of his estranged daughter who occasionally he’d miss a bit but couldn’t be fucked to do anything about it for 784 pages. If anything, he was a bit of a dick. He had a girlfriend, right, which was supposed to be a bit of a tension riser isn’t it, because now he’s got something to lose as he closes in on stuff he’s not supposed to know, and he could never get over the fact she was twenty two years younger. He mentions it three times. It must have been written explicitly for screenplay because there were these periodical recaps and I’m like, Harry? Have you forgotten you told me this already, 300 pages ago? I know, it was a long time. *It felt like it for me too.* Then when the young girlfriend goes off in an unconvincing childish strop and the inevitable attack happens (we saw it the minute he got with her, chaps), she dumps him, and later she tries to ring him, and he ignores her call!! She’s taken a knife to the throat for him, and he gets a bit wrapped up in himself and is now too busy for her, despite being gutted about being dumped and ‘racked with guilt’ as he kept saying. Well, not that guilty.

The Pencil of Rage came out with the portrayals of China and the Chinese. I’ve been reading books on China since these two journos turned up in Canberra as green little reporters twenty five years ago; you know, there’s a lot there what with thousands of years of culture and history and a billion people and I’ve never read such boringly obvious portrayal of a Bad Guy. A character defects, overcoming a life time of carefully tuned ‘education’ because….ooh, we need something emotional to make it convincing…er….fuck it, dead mother. Again, not developed enough to suggest why this character would defect in this circumstance when thousands of others wouldn’t. Lovely bit of world building in ‘Beijing’ ‘a Chinese melody drifted in the background.’ Who needs research eh? And a Chinese woman was described as ‘delicate’ no fewer than three times on one page, confirming all negative stereotypes about the submissiveness and mutability of Chinese women.

Then there was the needless transvestite. I don’t really understand why one character had to be trans. It added nothing to the story. But it was made a big deal of, so it’s not just a general diversity of some characters are black, some are Asian, some are trans. In fact, apart from a couple of Chinese, conspicuously painted as sinister or subversive, there was a complete lack of diversity. And this is the point for me.

Because all these people, swelled with power, feeding their greed and arrogance by dashing about the city at high speed were essentially dicks who demonstrated, despite all their qualifications in economics, no understanding of the real world and its struggles at all. The effects of poverty. Mental health (despite the ‘Mental Health Plan’ the fictitious government unsuccessfully tries to get through the house of representatives, mainly to show the Prime Minister is ‘a good guy,’), the ostracization of first nation people. As an immigrant outsider whose qualifications seem to count for shite, having daily battles with getting out of bed and the wine, it was quite depressing reading. Like I should have tried harder in my career to be important high fliers like these dudes. More assurance from Australia that I’m not good enough, from terribly constructed not-real people.

It is fascinating ear-wigging conversation in this town. Walking past people on their phones or those strolling in pairs (invariably young, athletic types in brown shoes and blue trousers; no blazers) you do catch snippets of Very Important Sounding Things. But is there a disconnect between them having coffee and important conversations (soooo different from teaching where you GET in your classroom, STAY in there, DON’T come out for seven hours, BE inspiring, NO you can’t leave to piss) and the real people they serve?

Look, like the aboriginals. The big elephant in Australian society who are miraculously unrepresented in this city. I have never seen such a white city. Lots of young east Asians at the university and, it seems, applying for hideously boring accounting systems jobs, but apart from that, very little diversity. And this troubles me. Before finishing the crap book, I read a great one about Noongar people of western Australia; struggling with their disenfranchisement and the bad choices they make based on their…lack of choices. Drugs, alcohol, abuse. How to reconnect with an ancient past that is spiritual and beautiful, solace against the modern world that probably many also want to engage with; combining success in modern Australian society through education and inclusion with celebrating traditions. These people were returning to their homeland as traditional owners, but now there are fences, a certain area is a holiday caravan park and the owners don’t have much sympathy for their free movement. After visiting the aborigine exhibition at the national museum, I was quite appalled and upset. How can white people live on the land, daily staring in the face of those they stole it from? Even in America, they wiped out most of the first nation peoples so used the place as a blank canvas to construct their national identity. Which is something Australians struggle with – a sense of belonging, constructing their identity out of ANZAC day – bloody violence and war. That’s not a cultural identity. I’ve had many discussions about this with Morris dancers, who feel connections with the village of their ancestors in England (I did mention this was merely inbreeding, and not meaningful), who know more about regional dances than I do and sort of sometimes miss the point of it being ‘folk;’ of the people, who change and grow. Australian identity is something that is still growing. And I think it should. Because, being a remainer, right, I’m quite into immigration. I am one. And after considering, then rejecting the idea that we can’t send all the white people in Australia back (I would revolt if someone said the reverse in England), there has to be a way for first nation and immigrants to unite over their love of this land. Because we do love it, I love it. I love beaches and emus and kangaroos! Anyone who doesn’t has no soul. And that is something that can bind us. Love, of course.

Which brings me back to finding soul. Apparently the hill where Parliament sits is a significant site for the Ngunnawal people – it is a woman’s mountain and important for their rituals. Not so easy to wander up there anymore and continue your culture. It’s like there was soul here, but perhaps nasty politicians took it all. And in looking for soul, I see it more in the trees and the hills than I do in this city. So I’m still looking for it. I’m finding it in odd little alleyways, cluttered with parked cars, murals painted on the wall and a load of bins…which is the secret entrance for a funny little windowless cocktail bar. I’m finding it under the trees at a cheap taco place round the corner from my flat, where they always seem to have secret meat you can just ask for. (Not a euphemism.) And I find it in the brilliant Smiths Alternative bar and music venue that doesn’t get a look-in in that stupid book because its ripped up, weathered sofas that render the pavement a hazard under the arcades of the Melbourne building is the sweet home of the Lost. Students lie on sofas all day, homeless men and women take their rest and drink the free water, smoking and reading the books; hippies resolutely not wearing shoes will play the piano and there is a particular smell. And, marvellously, good wine.

There we go.

Bugger Blogging

There has been an absence of blogs for over a month. But Chris, how is your giddy life of sunshine I hear you cry! The initial striking in the face of newness and comparisons wanes into a routine of regular life which is pretty much the same for people anywhere, and therefore giddy life is completely wasted on chumps that get to live in beautiful places and have the temerity to not tremble with excess joy at every second.

I have not written a blog because I have not been ready to get to grips with Things. So, I begin now by throwing myself into just a bit of honesty and integrity – that human quality I have recently been lauding much in myself in my greatest works of fiction to date: my recent job applications.

This again may be a reprimand to all those that gleefully celebrated my opportunity to be a ‘lady of leisure,’ digging me conspiratorially in the side despite my extended withering looks. The trouble is, you can’t create and celebrate a touchy feminist among you, then try to exult the joys of an Edwardian life style. And Purpose, dear friends, Purpose, must not be underestimated in the well-being of a social human. Now I am, of course, for a period of six luxurious long weeks a year, able to fuck around purposelessly, drinking daily, strolling and writing very happily. Purpose here is not denied me. There is certainty in the length of time allotted for such fuckaboutery and Purpose is re-asserted in September, the knowledge of What I Do Is Useful is there throughout. Take it away, and the sunshine fades, the red, greens and blues of rosellas are melancholy and the glorious smells of coffee and avocado in cafes frequented by purposeful people merely mock.

So this is, blates, a first world problem, to wit, Chris gets to go live in Australia at Her Majesty’s expense in a beautiful apartment with her lover and drink wonderful wine and eat gorgeous food and hike in breath-taking landscapes and all this is in danger of meaninglessness because She’s A Bit Bored. I stand here, head hung, ashamed. I walk passed homeless people on my way to buy fennel, and sit in cafes to write capricious fairy stories. Existential crises in such circumstances can frankly fuck off.

Forgive me. But here, for your general edification on the South Pacific, may I open this up to its wider context. There has been a lot in the news in the last few weeks about refugees in the South Pacific seeking asylum in Australia that have been held in a detention centre on Manus Island, in Papua New Guinea. Now the detention centre is actually referred to as a ‘processing’ centre, in full Orwellian charm, which already treats those people fleeing their homelands as criminals. Now the centre has closed. There are other islands used as holding pens of uncertainty, Nauru, and Christmas island all in similar positions. Men have been left there and their physical and mental health is deteriorating. Medecins Sans Frontieres have been campaigning to get these people off the island limbo and treated, there have been marches in Sydney on the matter. All medical professionals have been removed from the island and the men are sinking into the depression of uncertainty and purposelessness and their suicides are causing a national outrage.

Uncertainty and purposeless kills people. This is the same for a refugee who has lived in England or Australia most of his life, but now education has finished and his status as an immigrant is uncertain, he is unable to work or move on with his life. Intelligent young people, with great potential to contribute positively to society sinking into depression and being wasted. It is the same for a dispossessed aboriginal who has lost their culture and community and don’t fit the white norm around them. It is the same for a person who is unemployed in England on low benefits where working leaves him worse off, who sinks into depression and then homelessness. It is the same for those fleeing war zones who hover in camps; Rohingya, Syria, Yemen, Libya, the jungle at Calais. Only two hundred years ago, these people were the people who society believed to be witches and tortured and executed them in droves, and we all condemn society’s ignorance and misogyny without reflecting for a dark moment that if we were there then, we may well have joined the mob. Sixty years ago, that was the Jews and again with historical hindsight, we pride ourselves on having helped those fleeing the holocaust because our education tells us in uncomplicated black and white: Nazi = bad. We ignore that we resisted Jewish immigration for years, deploying emotive strawman arguments about our sons dying in the war, we ignore that the Dutch helped them far more, and we were plagued with our own anti-Semitism. Apply it now. It applies in today’s context to Syria, to Afghanistan, to Yemen, and yes, it applies to our own citizens who foolishly left to live in ISIS dominated areas in Raqqa because if we turn our backs on human beings, then we are no better than those we condemn as ignorant savages.

So in the wider scope on an objective level, here’s why we should help people out of the limbo of purposelessness even if they don’t seem miserable and pathetic enough, because they have homes and food, or they chose to go to that place, so it’s not that bad.

Well there’s the social and political bit. Back to the microcosm, please be reassured I am in no means in Drastic Circumstance because of the malaise of being purposeless. I did what I often do in these situations, have a word with myself, climb a mountain (wasn’t that high), sink a bottle of wine with Yates, thrash it out and resolve to Cheer Up. And meanwhile we have had a housewarming, (because the flat now has a sofa – the correct number), I’ve been to the cinema to see two films about female friendship with sapphic overtones, been to watch a rugby match, had my aunt and uncle come to visit, seen a platypus, a bandicoot and a poteroo, been on more bike rides round the lake, written lots and had a lovely weekend at Kosciuszko national park where we climbed the highest peak of Australia in an hour and twenty minutes (well, we started from 1400m, then got a chair lift another 500, but it was still a 7K uphill walk) and had a lovely dinner out.

A little more on Kozzie (of course that’s what it’s called!), there was a tarn! Love a glacial tarn, that’s how mountains are formed where I’m from! None of this millennia-of-erosion leaving inexplicable, perfectly rounded rocks. I can understand what a dirty great freakin’ glacier does to a mountain! This particular lake (Australia’s highest lake) had a beautiful name that I’ve not learned to pronounce yet, (you have a go: Cootapatamba) but it meant ‘the place where the eagle drank’ (or rested, or nested, or something.) Anyway, it’s all charged with legend; apparently this eagle brought fire to the south east of Australia. Nice of it! You can’t just tell this story though (well, they did on a plaque by the lake), you have to have an extended several-day telling by only certain people with lots of dancing and songs to tell it properly. Come to think of it, a little sign does seem rather short shrift.

We saw beautiful and delicate white flowers on the mountain side, sort of like snow drops, but without….dropping, and glorious mountain streams with little fishies in them. And the smell! I don’t know what it was, but this wonderful, herby, intoxicating sweet smell that was like heather and lavender (I saw neither of these before you become facetious) and thyme all mixed together. I stuck my face in numerous bushes, much to Yates’ horror, to try to ascertain the cause, but no, it is just the pureness of the air or something, or the left-over smouldering, flickering down the centuries from the time when the Eagle brought fire. There are also lots of snow gums, beautiful bone white forests with no leaves, rippling through the green eucalypts, and as we followed a shimmering, rushing waterfall (waterfalls will insist on rushing, there is no dissuading them) down the mountainside (we coulda taken the chair lift, we just didn’t wanna), these ivory white branches were the perfect seats to throw the giddy colours of rosellas into focus as we chased them down the hill.

And I really enjoyed the wine.

Halgrim and Binky and the Kangaroo

Halgrim lit his pipe and leaned back against the 1975 penguin edition of D.H. Lawrence’s Women in Love. He inhaled deeply; blew a few smoke rings, just for amusement, then exhaled the rest of the fumes in a contented sigh.

Binky coughed pointedly.

‘Sorry old man,’ Halgrim apologised, snatching off his hat and using it to waft vigorously in front of Binky’s nose, catching him occasionally with the tail of it until Binky eventually sneezed. He shot Halgrim a baleful look.

Halgrim was unaware. He leaned back at his ease again and cleared his throat. Binky winced in spite of himself. A Reflective Monologue was coming.

‘Well Binky,’ Halgrim began. ‘It’s the calm before the storm. Inventories are done, and triple checked. Books all dusted. Boxes ready.’

Binky busied himself with grooming his lower abdomen in a stance that was befitting his view of Halgrim’s rather pompous soliloquies.

‘Then we’re all boxed up for the big journey! Australia Binky!’ Halgrim leaned over to dig Binky gleefully in the ribs, but on account of Binky’s grooming position, found only ear and treacherous space behind it and nearly toppled over. Halgrim swiftly recovered his flow.

‘New climate! New landscape! New friends to be made and new enemies to vanquish! My research tells me the spiders there don’t respond to polite encouragement to weave their webs elsewhere but are as likely to steal half the library and run off with books tucked up under their arms!’

Binky looked up from his grooming. Legs.

‘By Odin, we’ll vanquish them. Hmm, I’ll have to test the humidity control there too. We don’t want pages getting damp. And see about light. Hopefully we can keep the books away from a window, so the covers don’t bleach. That Australian sun is pretty fierce.’

Binky could sense Halgrim was running out of steam. And imagination. Always so when he got onto the dry subject of paperback maintenance. He sat up and twitched his nose. It conveyed:

I’d like to see a Kangaroo.

* * * *

Within a month, and after learning a great many new colourful Antipodean fauna-related swearwords from the book-owners as they manhandled their one piece of furniture, 2 bikes and 33 boxes into the new apartment, Binky and Halgrim had arrived. The new home was bigger and more open than the last, but Halgrim consoled his agoraphobia with counting the reunited extended book collection. This took him a considerable while as he padded his bare feed up and down the wood shelves with his bobble hat bouncing softly on his lower back, bathed in the sharp, clear Australian light from the large windows with the view of the gum tree forested hills beyond. Binky hopped along behind him, keeping vigilant watch for spiders.

‘This light Binky, this sharp, clear light; it’s so unfeeling, it’s so foreign, so alien, Binky. It’s cold at the same time as hot, it wants to thin the blood and impose itself.’

Binky thought this was a bit much.

To cheer him up, he handed Halgrim his sunglasses, assaulted his Scandinavian skin with factor fifty, then rubbed his paws together gleefully with a twitch of the nose.

How about that Kangaroo?

So they shimmied out onto the balcony and hopped down onto the street.

* * * *

‘By Hel and Balder it’s freakin’ hot!!!!’ Halgrim screamed, hoping about in his bare, hairy feet on the tarmac. ‘It’s hotter than Macondo! Oh Loki, what will we do?’

The mention of Macondo reminded Binky of something crucial and he acted fast. Grabbing Halgrim by the hairy wrist he steered him into the nearest bar. Fifteen degrees air conditioning wrapped its cold arms around them both. Halgrim closed his eyes and squatted down as close to the AC unit as possible until an icicle formed at the end of his nose. A little smile grew on his troll lips.

‘That’s better Binky,’ Halgrim sighed. ‘Well, what’s the plan? How do we find our Kangaroo?’

Binky’s eyes examined the view from the window and plotted a route bouncing from bar to bar for two Ks in a linear trajectory until the city dribbled away and the bush took over.

‘Great plan Binky!’ Halgrim smiled. ‘Right, mines a VB!’

Halgrim and Binky made good progress bar hopping through town and became quite raucous. They sampled many local drinks and entered into enthusiastic discussions with the locals, with whom they were very popular. Halgrim entertained them with stories about road trips in Texas, morris and wassail traditions, the effect of heat on the people of Macondo (the locals loved that one), when Halgrim remembered what they were supposed to be doing.

‘Hey fellas!’ he began. ‘How can we find a Kangaroo around here?’

There followed a cacophony of sound and gabbling of strange unfamiliar names, carelessly pronounced. Jerabomberra. Tidbinbilla. Namadgi. Places to find kangaroos; recommendations for generally a good time; and Australian wildlife bingo overwhelmed troll and rabbit. Finally, with adequate instruction, Binky and Halgrim made their way out into the cooling evening.

After walking into the crepuscular air, and hours into the moonlight, they could hear the great rolling sound of the Pacific, thundering its oily waves in the distance. Quite some distance, but trolls and rabbits are famous for their hearing. They rounded a corner and then encountered a huge spider eating a lizard. Halgrim recoiled in terror and leapt on Binky’s back, who went quite green – quite a thing for a rabbit. The spider realised she was being watched and slid her eight eyes over to lock with theirs as she carried on meditatively masticating.

‘mmh mmmgh, mm mh mmgmh?’

‘P – pardon?’ quailed Halgrim. Binky desperately tried to decide rapidly and furtively which eye to look at, wondering which would cause least offence and ruefully remembering faint hopes of ‘vanquishing.’ The spider swallowed. They assumed.

‘I said: g’day, how y’gahin?’

‘Er, well,’ Halgrim replied, marshalling his manners, ‘thank you, and you?’

‘Ah, smashing!’ The spider shuffled a little to the left of the half-eaten lizard. ‘Ya just caught me at me supper there. Can I offer you fellas ehny?’

‘No!’ Halgrim and Binky asserted in unison.

‘No worries,’ the spider assured. ‘So whattaya up to?’

‘Um,’ Halgrim stuttered, thoroughly perturbed by the concept of a conversational spider, ‘well we’re looking for a kangaroo.’

‘Ah well mate,’ she said, ‘too easy! Keep goin’ this way a while, following the sound of the laughing kookaburra – yeah, you’ll know it.’ She could see Halgrim’s expression clouding and looking hesitant. ‘Look, It’s the only thing round here freakin’ laughing in this heat. Follow the sound until you meet Kyle, he’s a rosella; red, blue and green, so he sticks out pretty well. So he tells me this bloke has been staring at him pretty regulah, muttering about Kangaroos, so I reckon that guy’ll take ya to a big one.’

Binky blinked at this incongruous information. He looked at Halgrim, who was also blinking.

‘Right, well that’s…really accommodating, thank you so much!’

‘Hey, no worries!’ said the spider, turning back to her half-chewed lizard and winking at them with about three of the eight eyes. ‘Mind how ya go right?’

So Halgrim and Binky followed the sound of the Kookaburra through the bush.

‘I say, Binky,’ Halgrim couldn’t contain his thoughts any longer. ‘Remarkably articulate, the arachnids in this country!’

Binky twitched his nose to indicate that such big bodies must house big personalities.

‘Loki yes, they are big buggers aren’t they.’

Binky wondered if spiders who weren’t mid-supper; in fact – hungry – were quite so congenial. Or perhaps would even consider a rabbit as an amuse-bouche. He opened his pace.

They followed the laugh of the kookaburra until at last they saw it perched on a branch above them. Below and ahead was a brightly coloured bird facing them. It was stretching its wings out and flapping them slightly, and seemingly peering over its left shoulder behind it. And there, through the trees, muttering to himself was a small, dark man.

‘You know Binky, it’s funny; someone one told me that there are no birds in Australia.’

Binky shot Halgrim a look that clearly retorted: what class of imbecile told you that?

‘G’day fellas!’ Kyle the rosella welcomed them brightly.

‘Evening,’ returned Halgrim.

‘Will ya check out this crazy bloke here? Coupla times a week he comes out here and watches me at me evening ablutions.’ Kyle flicked and preened a few more feathers neatly into place. The small dark man in his collar and jacket leaned forward.

Binky winced. This chap was as inadequately dressed for the heat as some of those chaps in Macondo; a tested sign of madness.

‘Go on fellas,’ urged Kyle. ‘Talk to him. Maybe you can find out why he keeps watching me at me personal time.’

Binky and Halgrim nodded and approached the Small Dark Man. He wore a crisp collar – high – and a brown jacket buttoned up. His white cuffs extended neatly beyond his jacket sleeves and his boots were clean and smart. He wore a beard that succeeded in growing itself into a fine point, navigating and accumulating its way neatly downwards, and his hair was flame red. As a result; in the recent heat; he was a little less ‘dark’ than he hoped in his description. He appeared to be muttering as they approached; Binky heard fast and furtive expressions including; ‘it eyes me – wants me to follow it – can’t believe a real live being here – here in the desolate bush with huge hunking Nothing always lurking behind you – the void that horrifies man – the void…’

‘What’s he on about, Binky?’ Halgrim frowned as they approached.

‘I dunno mate,’ called Kyle from behind. ‘But when he arrives, at first he’s all stomping around until he sees me – scares the shit outta the snakes – seems angry from the get-go. Maybe he’s had an argument with his wife.’

Binky was perplexed. He gave Halgrim the worried grimace that indicated that this may be a man with Opinions, of which they had met several before, but this one seemed unlikely to give you a good night out first before launching into it all.

‘Hullo old chap?’ attempted Halgrim. The small dark man, utterly oblivious to the two behind him, started violently, then stared piercingly at them with black eyes. It seemed to be his way of regaining composure. His mouth began working again with the muttering in an English accent with a hint of Nottinghamshire: ‘the men of this place – so coarse – but free – God’s own country – I knew the bush was waiting, watching – these irresponsible classes – democrats – but irresponsible – the proletariat in charge…’

‘Excuse me?’ Halgrim frowned. The little man seemed to come to himself a bit. With an expression both of indifferent disdain and also keen interest that warned Binky of a fatally contrary character, he invited them both home to meet his wife.

* * * *

Home was a squat white-washed bungalow with a corrugated iron roof that both the Europeans seemed to inexplicably hate. When Halgrim and Binky made complimentary expressions, the woman muttered something about candlesticks and Indian sarongs – ‘taste;’ bid them admire the dahlias and brought in tea. The small man launched into a history of his leaving Europe which was moribund and dead, interspersed with such dubious comments about Jewish bankers and the necessity for rule and the class system that left Binky painfully longing for an inoffensive Halgrim soliloquy on proper hard-back preservation, and thoroughly repentent of his earlier attitude.

This went on. The dark man had opinions on Australians. Vacant people, irresponsible people, he said, free, raw and loose, but no inner life. No individual soul. Halgrim attempted to counter this; he’d found them very congenial, he said, very kind. Oh yes, the dark man continued, of course they are, but they have no depth. Halgrim conceded he had only spent an afternoon with a bunch of chaps which is perhaps not enough time to assess and interpret the psychology of an entire nation; but when the little man sagely declared his experience extended as impressively long as a week, Halgrim retracted this concession at once.

And on. The small dark man had opinions on miners and their clothing. He had extraordinary opinions on male friendship. It seemed to involve a lot of clasping. He had opinions on masculinity and what a Man was. He had opinions on politics, socialism, order, power. Suburbia, common people. Women.

Here we go, Binky thought, rolling his eyes. Go on – I bet you’ve got opinions on how women ought to have orgasms. And indeed he did: if she moves, she’s a lesbian, the clitoris doesn’t get a look in and if she climaxes before you, it doesn’t count. Binky sighed a rabbit sigh. He was tired of all this and hopped out onto the veranda to survey the bush and perhaps spot a kangaroo, leaving Halgrim to argue, or at least insist that no one ought to argue about a thing of which they could know nothing.

‘Man to man, here Halgrim, you’re a worthy opponent in argument,’ the small man continued. ‘We could be Mates. A manliness, a power struggling between us. I find you immutable. There is something dark and strong in your soul; a power in your loins.’ Halgrim hastily checked the fastening of his red dungarees.

‘I am very well read, I must admit,’ Halgrim said. ‘Of course, it’s obligatory as a book guardian. Reading makes you very open minded to people and their thoughts.’

‘Yes!’ the small dark man leaned forward eagerly – Halgrim flinched in case a Clasping was coming – ‘which is why you need to listen to more of mine!’

‘Actually,’ interposed Halgrim firmly, ‘we are engaged. My war bunny and I are looking for a kangaroo.’

Abruptly, the small man stood up. He began pacing the room vigorously, a frown creasing his brow.

‘I was afraid of this,’ he said darkly. ‘I can introduce you to the kangaroo. But should I? I am not committed myself yet. Am I done with Man yet, or must I have one last fight, and struggle with them? Is my destiny with Man, or am I finished with them? Is there really only one kind of power, the unsayable, dark God of the loins…’ Here the small man’s wife rummaged in a drawer and brought out some cigarettes. Then, seemingly having heard all this before, went out onto the veranda to smoke with Binky.

‘Well, never-mind all that loin stuff,’ Halgrim interjected impatiently. ‘If you know a Kangaroo, then let’s go right now. I promised my war bunny a kangaroo, and by Loki, he’ll have one.’ They immediately set out.

* * * *

They arrived in the centre of town. It was dark and there was a considerable commotion outside one of the public buildings; a crowd outside of it. As their journey had become more and more urban, the spirits of the War Bunny; more and more forlorn. Back to town; there must be some mistake. There could be no kangaroo here. But as the shimmering lights of bars whizzed by, rapidly departed were alternative hopes of sacking this off and going for a drink.

They were ushered into the building where chairs had been set out facing a stage with a lectern. Halgrim flinched, but sighed with relief when the small dark man sat down next to him. A speaker came out and took position on the little raised dais and began. He was a tall man, with a long and lean face; rather like a kangaroo, with a portly, marsupial pouch-like belly. His shoulders drooped and he stooped his body shyly, but there was a kindness in his spectacled eyes and a set firmness about his mouth. Binky, aware of the impact of this sort of narrative description, sighed another rabbit sigh and steeled himself.

‘Men,’ began the kangaroo man. Binky, a rabbit, found this regressive. He looked around him. It occurred to him for the first time how singularly similar this group of people were. All men. All white. No women. No rabbits. He’d read about aboriginals; black skinned and decorated with white paint and bright bandannas the reds, browns and tans of this country. He wondered where they were.

‘Men!’ reiterated the kangaroo man. ‘The time is for Love! A real mate-love between people! And for love to flourish, we must have Order, to remove physical misery as far as possible. And that you can only do by exerting strong, just POWER from above. I don’t believe in education. In ninety per cent of people it is useless. But I do want that ninety per cent to have full, substantial lives: as even slaves (another despairing sigh here from Binky who then looked imploringly at Halgrim) had under certain masters…’

Halgrim took a deep breath. He fished about in a deep and hidden pocket for his bottle of Aquavit which he kept about him for emergencies of patience. He took a quick gulp, then grabbed the small man by the elbow and Binky by the ears and ran out of the lecture hall.

The small man was furious. He stormed. Grimly and silently, but he had a talent for it. He did some hard staring and thinking at Halgrim, then turned away, thinking more silent (thankfully) lengthy thoughts, then turned back to Halgrim.

‘Forgive me,’ began Halgrim. ‘But that man was just spouting right wing fascism. It’s all dressed up as a benign, god-like love, but you can’t just say ‘oh mine’s the best way, so for your own sakes, you’ve got to do it,’ because that is fascism. I’m an educated troll, I won’t be duped. And more to the point, IT’S NOT A BLOODY KANGAROO!!’

The small dark man’s face contorted with mysterious rage. Loin-rage, probably.

‘Still the fighter,’ he jeered to Halgrim. ‘Well, let’s fight it out. One of us will be master. I can’t say I don’t admire your life force, because I do, but we must fight it.’

‘You want to wrestle?’ Halgrim asked, amazed.

‘Naked,’ answered the small dark man. ‘One of us must be vanquished!’

Now Halgrim had always been a peaceful troll. He was not violent by nature (this is, in fact, a common misconception about trolls), always fighting with the pen or with words – the proper weapons of the book troll. But the disappointment Binky had suffered on this wild kangaroo chase, the piffle he’d listened to for four solid hours, the insult done to reading and intellect, and humanity. The trigger of the word ‘vanquish.’ Halgrim knew his destiny. He once more reached for the Aquavit, kept handy for emergencies of strength (for he was but a small troll), and drank lustily.

‘You want to wrestle naked?’ Halgrim confirmed, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist. He returned the bottle to its mysterious pocket.

‘Fuck it. Alright.’

* * * *

Back at the small, dark man’s bush bungalow, Binky Prepared the Room. The door was locked. Furniture was pushed back against the walls and troll and man undressed. The small, dark man’s body was white and thin, but with a core of strength or some such thing. Halgrim’s was what you’d expect from a troll. Corpulent in places and very hairy.

Binky looked seriously from man to troll. Then with a small bow of the ears, the signal was given and the fighters connected.

They grappled severely for some time, the only sound was grunts and slaps as the bodies writhed; trying to get a hand hold on each other. At times it seemed the small, dark man had the upper hand, size helped; but it’s certainly not everything as he reached for Halgrim who suddenly was never there and always out of reach; his small hairy feet whipping away, his head always an inch or two away from where was lunged at. The small man’s fury darkened. ‘You will submit!’ he roared.

Halgrim suddenly contorted like a brown snake and pinned the man to the floor. Both wide feet were firmly planted on the biceps of the man who could no more shake off those sturdy feet than he could bend his legs right forward to whip Halgrim backwards. The book troll stood firm, seething and let out his own troll roar with all the force of an Icelandic revenge saga.

‘You’re a pompous arse!’ he shouted in the man’s face. ‘You’re the son of a bloody miner; how dare you give it all this ‘responsible classes’ nonsense?! And have you ever even met a bloody woman or are they just things in your mind you make up?! So you found your mother overbearing even though you admired her; you’re not the first; have a bloody conversation with her and talk it out!! I mean, haven’t you ever heard of Freud? And if you’re in love with men, can’t you just tell them and have a meaningful conversation about it instead of having to fight them?!’

Here, Binky clapped his ears fervently. He abhorred toxic masculinity.

‘So bloody well stay there,’ Halgrim continued to roar, ‘until you have worked some of this nonsense out for yourself!’

Halgrim redressed in his uniform with as much dignity as he could muster. Binky stayed staring down at the cowering small dark man to make sure he did not move. His eyes conveyed his contempt for the man. Kangaroo fucker, they seemed to say. Troll and rabbit turned their backs on him and the buxom, intelligent woman who was his wife came in from the veranda. She eyed her husband upon the floor with an arched eyebrow, and wordlessly lit another cigarette. After puffing three times deliberately while staring down at the whimpering man, she went back out onto the veranda.

Halgrim the book troll and his war bunny Binky went out into the Australian night.

* * * *

As the two figures strolled around the bush, it was nearly dawn. They admired the huge fruit bats returning to their trees to sleep for the day. They tried to enjoy themselves, after the horrors of the night.

‘I am sorry old rabbit,’ said Halgrim, sadly. ‘Quite a fiasco wasn’t it?’

Binky sighed a rabbit sigh.

‘But there is always another day Binky, don’t lose heart!’ Halgrim persevered with cheering his war bunny up. Binky’s expression intimated that he bet Kangaroos don’t even bloody exist anyway.

‘Daaaw now!’ comforted Halgrim. ‘We’ll find one!’ Then as the sky’s grey turned whiter, they heard the first call of the kookaburra.

‘Hey fellas!’ it laughed. ‘Howdya get on with ya kangaroo?’

‘Yes, not so well,’ Halgrim replied sullenly. ‘I’m glad it amuses you.’

‘Aw mate, look, this isn’t personal,’ the kookaburra continued to chuckle, ‘it’s just how I talk right? So no kangaroo? But there are heaps around here. Wait a minute.’

The kookaburra flew off and there was a great cackling in the air. Binky’s eyes conveyed mirthless fatigue.

And then strode forth from the bush a tall man, straight, with black skin and hair woollier than Halgrim’s. His skin was painted with geometric white patterns and he had a tasselled red cloak and intricate spear. Binky looked up at him in wonder. Halgrim approached.

There are over six hundred indigenous languages in Australia. By the time Halgrim had got to thirty-seven, Binky needed the loo, so hopped off for five minutes. On his discreet return, Halgrim appeared to have had the necessary breakthrough. Man and troll talked earnestly for some time. When they began chuckling, Binky rather feared they had got off topic. Halgrim was holding his hands out as if indicating the size of something. The warrior laughed again. It seems humanity has some beautiful things in common across the world and some words transcend translation. Binky smiled a rabbit smile.

The warrior beckoned to them and indicated for silence. Another gesture that is universal. He led them a few meters forward into the bush, then held back the hanging leaves of a large eucalyptus and all three stepped out into a clearing.

As they stared, the grey shadows of trees seemed to move in the dawn grey. Then a flush of gold as the sun threw its first liquid light over the top of Namadgi peak and the trees turned their heads. There were hundreds of kangaroos. A large grey picked up its long back legs from its sideways, prone position, and hopped towards them. Its ears were long, its face lean and serious and its leg muscles rose all the way to its small, elegant elbows.

Halgrim and Binky stepped forward, and troll, rabbit and kangaroo shook paws in the Eucalyptus scented dawn.

The Perks of the People

Is it just anthropologists that are interested in people? Can any coffee drinker with a keen ear, nosey disposition and romantic notions about ‘people watching’ that they picked up in some gormless guide book to Paris be interested in people? Are we all anthropologists? Or are all people just interested generally in all people?

People-interest oscillates between those noble, benign feelings towards humanity one has when you invariably don’t have to interact with them, like on a country walk in the early morning, or when you’re feeling very generous with just your friends down the pub; and then the deeply felt misanthropy that surfaces when other people’s children throw shit fits in supermarkets. I am guilty of all these oscillations and naïve good intentions. But so far, the Australian people interest me deeply. Having just finished writing a satire of D.H. Lawrence’s collected works, I hesitate to make sweeping generalisations on an entire population throughout thousands of miles with the sagacity of a fortnight’s experience. But the people I’ve spoken to are delightful.

First, the lexicon of the Australian people (people-of-Canberra-Barton-well,theonesItalkedto) is quirky and highly endearing. That’s patronizing. What I mean is, I can’t help just smiling whenever I hear an Australian talk. My first experiences were superficial interactions in shops and bars. But my GOD they’re polite. Having endured service by untrained muppet teenagers who have never seen a pumice stone and wouldn’t know a courgette if 10kilos killed their mother from a great height, or who are clearly too busy flirting with their colleague or whoever just walked in from school, I have to admit we’re not great at service in England. It’s very different here. The standard salutation in these circumstances is ‘Hi, how’re you?’ which is really, unnecessarily nice! One can’t help launching in to a familiar discussion of your day’s movements (since you asked me for a tale…). One woman in a jeans shop pulled this one on me; after I stammered my reply and reciprocation, she told me her name and instructed me to let her know if I needed anything. I nearly gave her my number and asked if she’d like to meet for coffee because I’m new here and don’t have any friends yet and… Confusing friendliness for an Englishwoman. And I must stress, this is not the hollow, robotic blandness I have seen in America with its infamous ‘have a nice day!’ (keep smiling or they’ll take you out back in a bag!), but genuine.

Consider the only time the English interact with strangers. The country walk – you pass another couple out at their leisure, they stop their conversation as you approach and each of you gears yourself up for the altercation. Then there is the awkward spasm where you only have to say ‘morning!’ but manage to confuse the starts of words and and for god’s sake, don’t look at them. Our standard greeting is ‘alright?’ which succeeds in uniting two syllables into one vowel-y grunt, and the super effortful reply of ‘yeahyou?’ also manages to be a several toned single syllable. Here, if I encounter someone in the street or on a walk, they look me square in the face and offer their communication so clearly, so comfortably, so genuinely that I have to stop myself from hopping off my bike, grasping them warmly by the hand like a Dickenzian Pickwickian and telling them what a lovely day I’m having.

There are two incidences I’ve noticed where friendly human exchange is not forthcoming here. One is during your morning walk or jog. I find in England there is such profound respect and admiration for anyone that can be determined enough get up at six and march their arse at pace round the field/lane/block through the frost in the damn dark that my panted ‘mornings’ (I can now pant two syllables while running) are always met with slightly pitying but very encouraging responses. And solidarity amongst other mad bastards doing the same. Like a little pact. I find this hugely gratifying. Here, everyone is healthy so just get on with it and don’t expect wild praise just because you got your heart rate above sedentary.

The other incidence of the absence of warmth is flat hunting. It’s a very surreal and highly competitive scenario. You have fifteen minutes to view a flat, at the leisure of the estate agent. You gather outside in your guerrilla groups; couples sizing each other up – who looks like the better earner? – students with their wealthy parents, pairs of friends. You start counting how many there are. They’re all your competition. You go inside and all thirty-six-odd of you rampage around the place, getting in each other’s way, opening doors into each other, having muted conversations about the things you like, as Yates phrased so beautifully when he described it. You say loudly something negative about a cupboard, then run home as fast as you can to put your online application in, always clocking those that left first, wondering ‘what the hell is their game?’ It’s pretty freakin’ brutal.

So after two bloody weeks of this, we finally have a place. It’s an apartment in the city centre, cute little split-level affair with the two bedrooms, main bathroom and en-suite down a short flight of stairs. Then one large room with a smart little open kitchen on the right with an island unit. It’s very professional middle class and I can’t wait to start pretentiously arranging ikea blankets and display fruit. Balcony’s a bit shabby but hopefully plants and umbrellas and stuff will soften the brickwork. We move in this week. I am surprisingly tired of meals out, although the prospect of cooking the eternally popular ‘snausage gnocchi’ in forty degree heat doesn’t thrill me.

Other charming phrases we’ve heard in the last week are the abbreviations. If you can take a longer word, chop it in half (or preferably just down to its first syllable) and stick an ‘o’ or a ‘y’ on the end, job’s a good’un. Now this is not wholly unfamiliar to boaters, after Cow Roast is ‘Berko,’ I like to walk round the ‘ressy,’ are you going to the festival in ‘Ricki?’ So I’ve slipped into this quite readily (my favourite is ‘eggs benny’ – I’ve always found the phrase ‘eggs benedict’ needlessly pretentious) and I enjoy the squirm of pleasure I furtively observe Australians doing when they feel they have assimilated another pom. I also love the phrase ‘heaps of,’ and ‘get-go.’ Also ‘ks’ instead of kilometres. But the favourite has got to be wheeler-dealer Dean’s judicious and heavily frequent use of ‘Look’ every third sentence when he was selling us a car. It’s an alright car – ford focus, automatic, bit squeaky (then turn the goddam radio up), white… but we have a car now, and a running joke, so we’ll take that.

It’s been a bit of a funny week, seeing as I have been alone applying for jobs and piffling away at my silly writing while Yates goes out and earns. Not sure how I as a feminist feel about that one. Ironically, unliberated. I have been acclimatising to the heat because after three days of barricading myself into the hotel room, I realised life can’t just stop because it’s hot, so get out there, get sweaty, stay in the shade, drink water and commit to your twice daily shower. It’s a shame not to look at this blue, green, white and gold world. I went to the art gallery. Educated myself on a bit of aboriginal art. So a lot of what you see is called dot painting, and apparently, it’s what the desert looks like from above. There’s method in there. There are symbols mixed into all those shapes, for rivers, campsites, kangaroo tracks. Not just random colours and triangles yo. Lots of the pictures had names involving dreaming: woman dreaming, fire dreaming, egret dreaming, naughty boy dreaming (perplexing). On investigating this, I was told dreamtime is sort of all history, as well as the mythical creation of the world. This is, I gather, because of the oral tradition of the aborigines, everything from before your grandparents (Chris interpretation – I suppose then, the last people that can tell you stuff about a certain time) is ‘dreaming.’ Sort of beautiful.

Then it was the weekend, and we could do more exploring! We had a lovely time at the botanic gardens. We saw lizards! And we found a tinder party on the eucalyptus lawn…. And kangaroo tea towels. Then on Sunday we went to Tidbinbilla!

This is one of those unfamiliar words carelessly pronounced at me in the first week. I had to get the chap to write it down to make sure he wasn’t joking. Apparently it was great for all your standard Aussy wildlife. We’d been up into Namadgi park (just approaching the Australian Alps) the week before and I caught myself thinking, well it’s bloody hot, and we already walked around in glorious eucalypt covered hills last week. Tidbinbilla is amazing though, and I am vetting and spotting most places for Teck appropriateness and where I will take my family.

Tidbinbilla is an enormous nature reserve that you drive round. But there are loads of places of interest, where you park up, get out, use the loo (there are lots, but check under the toilet seat!) and then go for a walk. You can do 11k walks around the place, and lots of little ones…which easily add up to that. So it’s the sort of place you wanna pack a picnic for, take a ball or frisbee, a book and spend all day. Do some walks, chill out, have some lunch, do another walk. It was beautiful. And as we strolled around this enormous open site with nine thousand metre, green cloaked mountain peaks all around us, and yellow ragwort-like flowers adorning the grass, it occurred to me at once that I could see no one. There is not a damn spot in the whole of the vastness of the Lake District where you can’t see the little bright red figure of the gortex-wearing hiker somewhere on a ridge or against a sodden hill, but here, no one. Just Yates and I, and thousands of these funny little cricket things that had beautiful patterned yellow wings that could properly fly with them. Thousands of them in the air, how I imagine our butterfly population used to be a hundred years ago.
We finally saw kangaroos too. Scratching kangaroos, lying down kangaroos, hopping kangaroos, baby kangaroos. It was awesome. And swamp wallabies. We hunted for platypus very patiently, but didn’t see any. We visited the koala enclosure and saw some sort of displayed, like in a zoo and they are bloody cute, and we spotted one up in a tree. We heard kookaburras. We saw turtles and swallows, cormorants and a musk duck. It wasn’t forty degrees, it was shady and breezy and it was incredibly beautiful. I can see why a culture of respecting the land has persisted here for millennia; why my ancestors who travelled to western Australia battled isolation and hardship to stay here.
And when we thought there could be nothing more lovely on earth, we went to Gibraltar falls, which is the most end of the world freaking beautiful place on the planet. It’s a waterfall with gentle little streams and rock pools weaving their way down to the larger drop, in the palm of the mountains that rise up above it on all sides. And despite all the tiny yellow signs saying ‘danger, drop,’ it’s a local goddamn swimming pool. Loads of people in swim stuff luxuriating in the cool streams and pools and always with the beautiful blue, green and white of the bush to look at. Heavenly. I thought a place like that only existed in films or on the internet. So grab a picnic, a couple of beers and a book, and stay there till it gets dark.

In other news, I gave a killer karaoke performance last weekend too. Pub quiz again tonight, and I’ve been swotting.