Published The Advocate, March 4, 2006
AT BURNIE Airport, I was watching two mature women, wearing hiking boots and parkas, reading The Advocate, bless them, while their husbands put their baggage through the check-in. Out of the blue, one of the hubbies called out: 'Sick of walking; sick of ferns!' There you go – the whole Tasmanian trekking experience summarised in one throwaway line. What did he expect? There is no pleasing some people. At my mother’s place in Geelong later the same day, I was reading a story in her local paper about the owner of a photo shop who was put in a 12 month good behaviour bond for assaulting an elderly customer. The customer had complained that his photos had been printed out of focus. Since film processing now is automatic, we can safely assume if the photos were out of focus, the fault was in the hands of the photographer, not the processor. The owner said as much. The grumpy old man said he wasn’t paying. The owner cracked. He flicked the photos across the floor and when the customer bent over to pick them up, the owner whacked him over the head. And then whacked him again for good measure. The owner, in his early 50s, had no prior convictions. His lawyer said he realised now he could not cope with difficult customers and had sold the photo shop. There really is no excuse for whacking anyone but, boy, you can easily sympathise with the owner’s frustration. Basil Fawlty would understand anyway. I read out the story to my mother while she was cooking tea, expecting her to agree the shop owner had a reasonable defence on the grounds of provocation. She thought no such thing. She said service standards nowadays were appalling everywhere and, not for the first time that evening, harped on about her little Peugeot. The car had a rattle. She took it to the garage where she always took it, expecting immediate service and the usual cup of tea. The garage had since changed hands. There was no cup of tea and mum was told to make a service booking, like everyone else. Also, the computer had crashed and her service record had disappeared. She was ropeable. The previous owner had sold the business because he was dying of cancer but she still intended to ring his home and give him a piece of her mind. Sigh. Yet, on the same day as the car tizz, a computer glitch at her doctor’s surgery meant she could not obtain a prescription for blood pressure tablets, which she needs. That was different, she said. Before I left Geelong, I was walking past a café and on a chalkboard out front was the message: 'Do not let yesterday use up too much of today.' I liked that and had a coffee there instead of in the café next door. I have returned to work with an idea that my job is a rare treat, which attracts only goodwill and understanding. Try not to spoil it.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Published The Advocate, February 25, 2006
PART of the experience of shopping with my mother was the dressing up as if you were going to church – genuflecting at the holy altar of retail hallelujah. It was never pleasant. Part of it was the ‘Sunday best’ effort but mostly it was the tension of going out in public with your mum, and vice versa. She would smear her spittle on my unruly hair as if my appearance was a conspiracy against her sense of style and decorum, and would issue warnings not to shame the family name or she would disown me. My mother is nearly 80 now and I thought the trauma had passed. Recently I went with her while she bought a pair of shoes. After an hour of trying on different pairs, she departed without buying any. And it all came flooding back. Aaaargh. For my dad, a hardware store was seventh heaven. He would spend hours wandering the aisles to see what’s what, and often came away with a new dooverwacky or a light globe. Our pantry had a special shelf for light globes. The only memory I have of him buying clothes was the day he came home with two white Viscostatic shirts, which he said were wash’n’wear to save mum the ironing. The shirts quickly yellowed with sun and underarm sweat although we lived in Geelong, not noted for its sub-tropical heat. Dad was never again allowed to buy shirts by himself. Tipster Donkey Dan – 'the pensioner’s friend' – loves shopping. He knows the comparative prices of Bismark potatoes across the Coast; he actually reads the can labels to find the country of origin; and he promises to find the best price on any item, guaranteed, even if it costs him $5 in petrol to get there. But even DD draws the line at buying clothes for his wife. He once bought her tennis shoes, which had to be returned because they were the wrong size, wrong colour, wrong pattern – tick the box – and he learned from it. For their recent wedding anniversary, he bought her a lingerie voucher and was smothered in love and kisses. Hmm, tennis shoes and lingerie – does that sound like a fetish to you? Anyway, no man in his right mind would dare buy clothes for a woman. Why put yourself at physical risk in knowing she is now a size 16, no longer a 10, which apparently was declared a state secret some years ago; or exposing the lie that size 16 is not the same in all brands; or choosing a colour that does not match her mood at a given moment? Yet women insist on buying clothes for their menfolk. Shirts the colour of toilet disinfectant, with sleeves too long, and pink ties – pink! – that you are expected to wear in public. Why do they do it? It must be a gender thing. I have a photo of an elderly Aboriginal woman in the Outback, wearing a T-shirt printed with: I Shop Therefore I Am.
PART of the experience of shopping with my mother was the dressing up as if you were going to church – genuflecting at the holy altar of retail hallelujah. It was never pleasant. Part of it was the ‘Sunday best’ effort but mostly it was the tension of going out in public with your mum, and vice versa. She would smear her spittle on my unruly hair as if my appearance was a conspiracy against her sense of style and decorum, and would issue warnings not to shame the family name or she would disown me. My mother is nearly 80 now and I thought the trauma had passed. Recently I went with her while she bought a pair of shoes. After an hour of trying on different pairs, she departed without buying any. And it all came flooding back. Aaaargh. For my dad, a hardware store was seventh heaven. He would spend hours wandering the aisles to see what’s what, and often came away with a new dooverwacky or a light globe. Our pantry had a special shelf for light globes. The only memory I have of him buying clothes was the day he came home with two white Viscostatic shirts, which he said were wash’n’wear to save mum the ironing. The shirts quickly yellowed with sun and underarm sweat although we lived in Geelong, not noted for its sub-tropical heat. Dad was never again allowed to buy shirts by himself. Tipster Donkey Dan – 'the pensioner’s friend' – loves shopping. He knows the comparative prices of Bismark potatoes across the Coast; he actually reads the can labels to find the country of origin; and he promises to find the best price on any item, guaranteed, even if it costs him $5 in petrol to get there. But even DD draws the line at buying clothes for his wife. He once bought her tennis shoes, which had to be returned because they were the wrong size, wrong colour, wrong pattern – tick the box – and he learned from it. For their recent wedding anniversary, he bought her a lingerie voucher and was smothered in love and kisses. Hmm, tennis shoes and lingerie – does that sound like a fetish to you? Anyway, no man in his right mind would dare buy clothes for a woman. Why put yourself at physical risk in knowing she is now a size 16, no longer a 10, which apparently was declared a state secret some years ago; or exposing the lie that size 16 is not the same in all brands; or choosing a colour that does not match her mood at a given moment? Yet women insist on buying clothes for their menfolk. Shirts the colour of toilet disinfectant, with sleeves too long, and pink ties – pink! – that you are expected to wear in public. Why do they do it? It must be a gender thing. I have a photo of an elderly Aboriginal woman in the Outback, wearing a T-shirt printed with: I Shop Therefore I Am.
