I have a long-term relationship with my osteopath Michael – well, that’s another story. Anyway, last week, shooting the breeze – which can blow in any direction – we touched on our current strange state of being.
Suspense. It’s been a season of it.
First, a hung parliament. Two weeks of limbo while the wanna-be leaders canvassed for supporters.
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| Mistah wonders, where? |
The following week Caroline Wilson’s voice of reason stood out among the cries of outrage. Who would have missed this Melbourne-in-a-tizz week? The sunny day of the rematch, we heard the roars of the crowd and knew what was happening without needing to see. But it was impossible to resist the temptation to stroll through the East Melbourne streets spotting stray forlorn Saintsters, which swelled to fully-fledged droves as we stood outside the shrine. Grumpy staff didn't even allow the usual 3/4-time opening of the gates. 'There's 95,000 people in there!' muttered the moody minion. 'Not any more!' Rog said.
What would be the third thing, we wondered? Could it be the long chilly winter that never seemed to end? Michael reckons it’s been four extra weeks of cold, with muscles stiffening proportionately.
Perhaps it’ll be the Melbourne Cup. Or maybe the state election in November.
Anyway, the whole thing stirred a hankering for action, escape, some kind of change, perhaps spurred by reading Graham Greene’s Ways of Escape, perhaps by editing Lonely Planet’s Texas 3 and returning to Austin and San Antone in my head and pining for Asleep at the Wheel’s 40th-anniversary reunion in November in Austin.
Hair was within my sphere of influence. It was time. So off to Mario at Fluff for the big cut. Luckily Mario understands a fair degree of negotiation is required – we have a long-term relationship – and a glass of good wine steadies nerves as a pile of tresses amasses around the chair.
And afterwards the lightness of being was not unbearable at all.
