Carolines a victim, smash your social system

It's midday in a Tasmanian town. I'm biting into a sandwich sold to me by a perky, tattooed adolescent who finds shiny things cute and I suspect has a twitter account dedicated to things her cat does that are equally cute. There's a long row of computer Internet kiosks in the middle of the shopping centre, un-used, although the seats are used by small giggling children to form human pyramids of playfulness. There's a small child outside Coles who wants to join in but his arm is being clamped in a parental anti fun vice by his harried, pink boob tube wearing mother, who never looks up from her phone, simply adjusting her required grip whenever the child squirms. I guess it's a form of parenting. I wouldn't know - I don't have any kids. I have an African sponsor child who has just betrayed me by sending me a picture of herself grinning and holding a Manchester United bag. I think this as close as I'll get to 1ne of those horrendous moments in a sitcom from the 70tys when the bigoted dad finds out his daughter is dating an ethnic. I certainly fumed for quite some time but I forgave her because her mud hut is in Radio Tanzania Road. I wonder if they do crazy calls and the secret sound. The children on the leather stool across from the computer have stopped forming a pyramid and are now playing tickle fights. Their parents are idly discussing mobile phone plans with white trousered clipboard girl in the Telstra shop - a pudgy girl with a boil on her neck whose whole job is stand with a clipboard and wait for some1ne to discuss the fascinating world of mobile phones. The parents are wide eyed, so I guess she's good at her job. She's got jam from a donut on her top, but that's not stopping her. Wonder what would - a different kind of spread maybe. I've got a txt on my phone from my ironic girlfriend, who wants me to ring her just to talk. There's heavy life stuff going on with my ironic girlfriend, stuff I'm massively under-qualified to discuss. My accumulated skills for the day seem to be stain spotting, avoiding runaway children, and glaring angrily at people who cut me off in traffic. Answering heavy questions about the finite nature of a child’s mortality...not so good at. And especially not in txt speak...

They've put up the grand final display in the window of the local knick knack shop. There are a lot of people wandering around with wads of cash, and confused expressions, and in Tasmania, social functions depend on picking between a small porcelain pig and a wall clock apparently, such is the level of discourse. Anxiety is on the rise. It's like Xmas, but with specific stripes of paint on the presents. There's a girl pushing a trolley back and forth in front of the counter like she's rocking a child. She's got on 1ne of those T-shirts that supposed to be ironic, but I suspect it's not - it simply says God made me awesome on it in a Times New Roman red font - and she's giving lay by instructions to a girl behind the counter with a vacant stare, flecks of mauve eye shadow, and manual learned customer services. The details are roughly the length of the script of Das Boot. Precision pincer movements synchronised to the letter, involving mothers meeting children at millisecond precise moments and parcels being thrown from hand to hand. The girl duly scrawls down all the details, but only I can see, from my vantage point, she's actually drawn a pig on the notepad. The curly tail was a lovely touch. I sadly don't get to see the military collection from lay-by of the giant flag, but I imagine there was high farce involved. Lord knows my only lay-by experiences were at Fitzgeralds in Burnie, which involved telling some slack jawed employed to supplement his income football player from Cooee or Burnie to go and fetch an item from the back, and waiting 1/2lf an hour while he had a smoke, ate a sandwich, and flirted idly with middle aged women in the makeup section. He would then come back and say something about not being able to find...um...what was it again? Those blokes also filled in as Santa by the way when the real Fitzgeralds Santa’s were too drunk to make it in at work. There's an old woman who's smashed her hip being tended to by concerned relatives just down from the shop, her whole life now on display as she stares up at gaudy fluorescent lighting, being stepped over by football merchandise buying punters as she lies on the ground. The girl keeps drawing her pig, giving it her full attention, as life goes on around her. It says a lot about me that my interest is more captivated by her ability to - damn her - get a curly tail in a drawing right than helping an old woman, but I never claimed to be a helper...oh wait, another txt...

There's a radio station promotion just down the far end. It's some sort of teenage fashion parade. I'm not sure how you have a fashion parade on radio - someone told me once the English radio DJ Mike Read 1nce had a segment on radio called Jumper of the Week where he would spend 10en minutes on radio describing a jumper. I don't know if that's true. They've got some ruddy faced teenager on stage asking her to recount her worst fashion disaster. The microphone isn't working, it's hissing and cackling, and the woman holding the microphone is visibly frustrated, thus making it a disaster inside a segment about a disaster. Entire civilizations have feted plays about less poignancy. The woman with the hip injury is ferried on a stretcher down some stairs, with less care than my gift was wrapped if I'm honest. She disappears out of sight. I fret often about such elderly accidents. My Mum smashed her ankle getting the post a few years ago. Being hardy, she put herself on her own stretcher - I couldn't do that, pampered with middle class security. I hate getting old as it is - I don't mind the accumulation of pop culture wisdom, but the impending creaks, not to mention the dread of having a heart attack in front of slack jawed, muffin topped teenagers isn't appealing. The radio segment crashes to a halt in front of everyone’s eyes. The microphone troubles haven't gone away, and the ruddy faced teenager has been cornered anyway by white trousered clipboard girl, thus completing the circle of shopping centre life. The radio interviewer has her head in her hands in a chair and is being consoled by an effeminately haired blonde personal assistant offering Sustagen and hugs. Eventually, in a quiet corner of the mall, she has to record some nods and links to the webcam they have, which she deals with like a pro. She does this when I'm a queue for Red Bull and chocolate, dealing with the strains of being noticed by some1ne directly across from me. I don't deal with it like a pro, adopting my fiercest pout. Someo1ne pipes through some soothing music at ear bursting levels, and trapped in this hellish moment, I'd give anything for some Sustagen - although the wandering hands of the PA, I would say no to...

There are 2wo newsagents in the place I work now. I hate them both. 1ne is giving me Vietnam style acid flashbacks to the Penguin newsagency. Any time I pick up a magazine I expect a man to come storming down the aisle smelling of carbolic soap demanding I shell out 50c for a copy of Shoot! Magazine. The other is staffed by rude girls and indolent men, with narrow aisles that would torment a claustrophobic for hours - any time some1ne wants to pick up the Better Homes and Gardens magazine they have to suck in their guts if some1ne walks past. The first time I was in there I bought a bulky footy record and a paper, and the girl behind the counter didn't offer me a bag. She just stared at me as if bags were never invented, and in my surprise and retreat, I knocked 2wo books off the counter. Made her day. I could see her little beady eyes flickering with glee. Today, as she reached for my money, she knocked a packet of Lifesavers to the floor with her elbow. Vengeance. She knew I knew that I had got her back as well. Her beady eyes weren't quite as gleeful as the mint flavoured treat was placed back on the rack. I wish all my problems could be solved as easily as a clumsy girl can knock a packet of Lifesavers off with her tuck shop lady elbows. I've turned my phone off my now - irony and whimsy can go too far. I've no desire, as much as I'm trying to be supportive, to find an ironic girlfriend on my doorstep 1ne day. It's only then I realise I've already bought her a present for tomorrow. Ah damn it. Oh well. I wander off down the road, reading about a cat and a dog that are friends. There's something about stories about animals that are friends that always gets me. A mendacious girl with a broad smile almost accosts me with some nonsense in a leaflet, but I sidestep her. In her last attempt to get me to notice, she says a smile costs nothing. It may do, but I'm all cashed out anyway, so I keep on walking, letting her acrimony at being ignored hang in the air. I've done enough listening for 1ne day. Besides, I need to find out the circumstances of why the dog and the cat are friends...

Back in the car, I even ignore the hum of radio patter, the faux jocularity. I am, completely, at sullen peace...