4our Scenes from a Rainy Hobart Friday

It's Friday afternoon in a Tasmanian suburb. The rain gently coats the pensioners outside with something to complain about, and my lunch break is fading from me all too quickly. The problem with lunch breaks, to purloin the old vaudeville joke about something else entirely, is that you never remember the great 1nes. I'm inside the claustrophobic narrow catacombs of a suburban newsagency. A man with glasses and a receding hairline is blocking my path. He has the beady eyes of a gargoyle and the critical faculties of the pickiest type of restaurant critic. His wife is a small, stooped man, with a ginger mullet and the air of some1ne who's listening skills were killed by depression sometime about the Fraser years. She has a stripy bag that contains nothing but oranges, and is idly flicking through a knitting magazine in the 1/2lf hearted way some1ne idea rich but time poor will always do - she'll start knitting tomorrow she says to herself, she promises herself mentally. I empathise - I'd do lots more writing if only the quality of programs on AUSTAR wasn't so consistently high. The man is cleaning his glasses of rainwater and blocking the path of several other middle aged men killing time on their lunch break. He then flicks through a book rack of autobiographies, holding them up and pointing out loudly how little the various authors had done in their lives to deserve an autobiography. He thrusts 1ne such tome from a reality TV star or football right in his wives face and says that he has lead a more interesting life than said author. His wife doesn't even react. She just stares sadly and quietly at the stained and matted carpet until he finishes speaking. Meanwhile, over at the Tattslotto counter, a man in poncho - remember, you can't be unhappy in a poncho - is pontificating to a young girl in purple eye shadow about his system for winning the lottery. Apparently it's all in the kid’s birthdays and in the stars. She says in a soft bogan voice how many times have you won the lottery? He looks awkwardly at her, picks up his tickets, and walks away without saying a word. Outside, the rain continues to bounce off the ground, bounce and then dissipate in a torrent down a gutter, like the faded dreams of so many suburban bustling shoppers. My dream for the moment is to avoid getting soaked, and for a moment I wonder if the tattslotto ticket buyer has a system to avoid being mugged for his poncho...my surroundings, as it where, are leading me to more and more grim thoughts...

It's 5ive pm at my work place. My computer screen is off, and I'm standing around a white table covered in magazines. A man with a patchy beard, akin to, say, a bass player from Dr Hook, brings in about 5ive posters a week to work, all of which are advertising upcoming events. I'm staring at the rusty, creaky old visage of Col Elliott, 1ne of those comedians critics sometimes say are "holding up a mirror to challenge political correctness" - he does Chinaman impressions in other words. I'm engaged in this 1ne sided staring contest with Col because I work in a very girly workplace and a very girly conversation finishing is my last conversational hurdle to negotiate before I go home - already this week, I've discovered that all naked men are essentially laughable and funny looking, so I know my expect every day of my workplace life to contain some sort of Cosmo revelations. The bonding glue between the women in my workplace is they all have kids and all wish they didn't. I've become some sort of conversational totem pole to them because I quite openly don't want kids, so they keep asking my opinion but I'm not really listening, since I'm trying to remember the line in a song...battleship of baggage and...how does it go? And I'm also trying to send txt msgs to 1ne of my friends to try and cheer him up. He sits at a desk in a different office, 1ne that has meetings all the time, high pressure targets, inspirational videos to watch and a manager who runs the office with an iron fist and not much encouragement. In contrast our office is eating lollies, and our only morning meetings are held around the radio trying to win a garden voucher from a local DJ. I'm trying to keep his spirits up but it isn't easy. My Mum is somewhat bewildered by my reputation as a good listener. She thinks whenever some1ne is unburdening to me my mind is at the MCG imagining I'm playing for Collingwood or wondering what the 3hrd track on Withershins is. In most cases, that's true, but in this instance, I'm genuinely trying to help. When I say I'm going home, he trots off to another soul-less meeting in an oak panelled office to be berated...again. There's nothing I can do - I leave the txt unanswered, and go outside, for no other reason than to avoid our over chatty cleaner, lest I ask for hours on end when the hell she's going to some dusting...

It's later that night in a quiet Hobart pub. In the corner a black haired female singer is in cover version hell - her only audience are 2wo men inappropriately aged to wear baseball caps requesting Holy Grail endlessly with squeaky hoarse voices. She tries to engage our table in some banter just for something else to do, but we're a little distracted. We've got a list in front of us to organise Xmas drinks - who's in, who's out, as if we're organising an Oscar’s party, such is the exclusivity and passion of the debate. At 1ne of the poker machines a man with frizzy ginger hair sits down with a bucket full of coins, to try and win his fortune. He stares longingly at the machine as if it's the answer to all his problems, and then begins the process of falling victim to the slavish rhythm of the poker machines noises. Outside the window taxi drivers lean against their unused cabs, standing in the rain setting the world to social rights. Soon they will disappear into the night, taking with them passengers who will become part of the original social networking chain, and have opinions on all matters pressed deep into their conscious whether they like it or not. The singer takes a break to get her free drink for the night, and slowly walks up to the bar shrugging gently almost in apology that no 1ne is into her singing. The gambler truly doesn't know when to hold them, and returns to change a 2nd bucket of coins from the indifferent bar stuff. It's only later I realise that when we went into The Central that we sat at our "usual table" - we had our usual conversations, and although the singer and the gambler have changed faces, not much else has in the intervening years. Should I crave more from my existence or cherish my fortune in consistency, in friends and situations I could count on? Such questions probably drove ancient philosophers nuts, although none of them were distracted by the clunking and clicking of a never winning poker machine, the acoustic sounds of a slowed down cover version of Come Together, the whirling thrill of free passed around the bar snacks, wondering which Taxi driver in the queue has the most right wing opinions and debates about the 3hrd member of Bananarama. Everyone looks at me - Keren I say. They now I'll know. I know they know I'll now. It's come from familiarity....we've been here before, and we'll be here again...that's just how it always will be...

It's late at night now. The cold and black of Hobart night-time are overwhelming, a star poking its head out of the darkness providing the only illumination. A suited and booted stranger who tried to make our acquaintance has already been discarded, lost in transition when his conversation threatened to become obnoxious. He stumbled off to go and annoy some1ne else with his opinions on finances a long time ago, now no more than a footnote in an anecdote. I'm picking bits of fish out of my teeth and waiting for a taxi as the rain stumbles down from the heavens in awkward, ragged patterns, chilling my bones and making it difficult to check my txt msgs. Some bridesmaids are fleeing Irish Murphy’s in a blur of angel wings and wedding dress fabric, taking another fleet of taxis far away, and complaining about the cold. My jumper is by necessity thin and boring to make sure I was allowed into pubs, but the payback to this is freezing cold. Cold and dark, like those claustrophobic Ayrshire mornings trying not to get a punch in the head from older bullies. I think if I hang round long enough in the dark some1ne might attack me sometimes, the consequence of having a mother who hasn't wised up to the methods of modern media to create fear in the populace. She always thinks if I walk for even a moment, something is out there, and it's seeped into my brain through osmosis. Everything has a consequence I guess. I drop my phone in a puddle and a passing drunk tuts so loudly it disturbs the Gods. I don't know why my Samsung abuse has so irked him, but perhaps it's just his excuse to have a go at me. As it turns out, he's tutting at some1ne else entirely, an obnoxious brunette girl calling everyone and sundry the C word. My phone has survived the bruising encounter with the pavement, and I jump into a taxi, leaving behind their forthcoming fracas to another anecdote chronicler. As my phone recovers, a txt msg comes up on my screen - some1nes leaving their husband at Xmas. Everything has consequences. The rain lashes down hard on the ground, as my taxi driver turns, looks at me and says "rough night huh?"...

Articulacy leaves me as I grunt, fall asleep, and let the gentle hum of Katy Perry’s ongoing battle with poor radio reception send me home to bed...

Monday 2 Thursday - Byzantine Labyrinth Of Suburbia

Monday morning - I have the same recurring real life nightmare, and it always starts with me thumping my own steering wheel as the splash of rain water goes over my car. Inevitably, a 4our wheel drive will have just cut me off in traffic, and as I sit in my impotently furious state of middle class futility, a bus will push to a grinding halt somewhere in the middle distance. This will be adorned with a carefully managed publicity shot of 2wo radio Djs, both looking pleased with themselves for transporting jocularity into the ears of the nation. 1ne of them is dating a supermodel. I don't know a supermodel. I barely know a model let alone 1ne adorned with an affixation at the start of her profession. I pashed a Queens Quest contestant 1nce outside the Penguin football ground. Well, try saying that in southern Tasmania. No 1ne knows what the NWFU is, never mind the Queens Quest competition, and in the age of sexual freedom that is early 2tyteens Hobart, simply saying you pashed some1ne is a yawn extracting story. The radio DJs are thus able to in a single carefully staged publicity shot on the back of a Metro bus rub into me that my Mondays aren't filled with supermodel relationships or carefully stage managed pranks. They are filled with sharp left turns and showers that never seem to end however. My work installed a form of instant messenger to the computer last week, but that won't impress many at Vienna fashion week. Someone has scribbled under their moniker and logo on this particular bus the words ARE DICKHEADS in a sort of Verdana font style of graffiti, which is such a small victory against the forces of celebrity, it must be celebrated. The bus will pull off into the distance, I'll slam my brakes angrily because I've been held up at a red light, and there I will sit in the mid morning traffic helplessly unable to do anything about it. I think at these moments of some sort of overly dramatic u-turn that results in me heading to spend a day at the beach, but I never have, and I probably never will. There's a guy next to me at the lights with the same sense of futility, and some horn rimmed glasses only ever worn by nerds about to have a milkshake poured over their heads in an American teen comedy, and in a hopelessly pointless moment of maledom, we have a race at the lights. It's not a deliberate race, merely time killing engine roaring, and in a summation of our futile middle class position in life, a blonde girl with pink lippy roars past us in Daddy’s car, in a plume of smoke and youthful swagger. The metaphor is blinding, and the fact that she nearly ploughs straight into the back of another DJ infected bus and has to brake sharply is, as they say, a mere detail...

Tuesday morning - Same red light, although the light dusting of rain onto the dirt ground and absence of rosy cheeked urchins off to school to get on their computers and post Facebook updates that so and so is a skank, I've decided to place my entire happiness on the ability of my sports team to move a piece of leather around a piece of greenery once owned by Aboriginal elders better than 22wo other randomly assorted strangers who have inverted values to my own team. It might be unromantic to describe an AFL Preliminary final in such terms, but I've just been speaking to my unromantic auntie in Scotland. She lives in a street where a romantic gesture is sending a txt msg that doesn't contain a swear word or an insult, so explaining the beauty of an alien Australian based sport down a phone line isn't going to be easy. I say this because 1ne of my teams elder statesmen is on the cover of the newspaper making 1ne of those old persons determined fists photographers have them make when they are close to death or unlikely to be in a physical condition to pose for an action shot. A woman at work walks past later in the day eating 1ne of the morning muffins so generously provided by corporate pseudo generosity, and says 1ne of those strange glib work phrases people feel obliged to say to pass the time. Something like makes you think. I don't know what makes me think these days, but the posed machinations of an elderly gent probably don't do it for me. I drove past a homeless guy on the way home last night - he was propped up in the rain against an ATM machine, his tattered rags the kind of tattered rags other tattered rag wearers would point to and say damn those rags are tattered, his eyes shut, his silhouette a despairing shadow of venom, despair and cheap wine in a cask. Did that make me think? I don't know - maybe. Maybe for as long as it took for the lights to change. That's the usual pattern of attention for the meandering suburban driver. Attention spans last only as long as 1ne colour of light stays constant, or as long as the patter of the radio isn't too inane or bland to make you press the off button...complex social issues? I can't even work my CD changer...

Wednesday morning - I've tried to suppress my Road Rage by biting down really hard on my finger every time I feel frustrated. I hate that every time I drive past my ex girlfriends old netball court it's so early morning empty, always sodden with rain and lots and clods of rubbish generally swirl around in the breeze. It's a little bit strange to see it so dilapidated, like seeing your childhood home have a garden covered in weeds, or seeing a favourite beloved auntie without teeth, but with stubble, so you have to suffer a rash inducing kiss. There's a red light that I always get stuck at, and today it's almost broken down, so I'm stuck there, alone, with my thoughts and a staticy radio hissing in my brain. For some reason at work, I've acquired an ironic girlfriend. I should explain - I engaged with this girl what I thought was a series of ironic and sardonic flirtations on the routines of work. I didn't know that they don't do sardonic in Margate. Now she sends me txt msgs about the alienation and despair that marriages where 1ne partner can't wash socks can bring. So I don't know if that means were in some sort of tense future relationship, if she's going to pitch up on my lawn with a bag full of stuff but it means...something? Maybe - I have a crush on a girl who works at an appallingly named hair salon, but I don't think that means anything at all. Irony is a dangerous thing. I don't know why everything got so complex - mind you, I had a relationship with Debbie back in Scotland which was a consistent battle between the emotional maturity of an 11even year old and a 12elve year old. Apparently if you can't understand the emotional complexity of an Orange Juice record, or preferred a Twix to a Galaxy Truffle, you aren't worth knowing. I preferred Sinitta. I had no hope. So I just sat swinging my legs on the circular brick wall that was my relationship bachelor pad trying to decipher the riddle that was Cosmopolitan approved relationship chat. By the time I get out of my car, my finger has chewed through and is covered in bite marks. I suspect that I need to acquire a new anger halting habit...maybe some mellow music. I hear some of Sinittas B-sides are particularly melancholy...

Thursday evening - I'm in some rapidly emptying car park, standing in the rain, not just any rain - Tassie rain that kicks and punches in the face like a drunk outside Syrup trying to nail a bouncer. Cars pass my feet, splash water over my shoes, and head home to eat some crispy fried food from plates and engage in amiable or otherwise conversation about socks or some such things. My "other" car I'm driving today (don't get too excited, it's like a 6th toe my other car - a defective abnormality of fate rather than some sort of Jay Leno style collection) has broken down in a miserable battery induced sigh of despair. The RACT man is explaining to me the nuances of a split battery while I hop from foot to foot awkwardly, not understanding a single word he's talking about. I don't know how many times I've stood in Tasmanian downpours listening to words I don't understand, sentences that don't make any sense. Break ups, bouncer edicts, friends fighting with other friends, car care tips....all received with the same bewildered expression on my face, the same hunched shoulders. I get back inside my car, stuck in suburbia, while the RACT man glues...things to things. I am left to stare over the fence into a nearby house. The occupants are a woman who is coarse in face and vulgar of finger point, and a man who is a slave to hair gel who I bet has never ironed a shirt because his beard needs trimmed. They are arguing in fluent bogan, with exaggerated hand gestures and swear words that end in N. I suspect later he'll send her a txt msg that proclaims love + vulgarity. I move my eyeline from their disparate points of view to a quite glorious beanbag, a bright orange illumination of radiance, a bean filled wonder from the era where every Australian owned an ABBA album and something that was orange only if the thing they wanted wasn't available in brown. It's probably a reflection of my attention span - mature issues, social complexities, they go by the wayside. Ironic girlfriends who could become real girlfriends if you aren't careful? Not even worried...but show me a beanbag, and I'm there. Explains a lot, my dog from up (squirrel!) attention span...I can't change...I won't change....my car starts after much tedious discussion, and I'm away again, swaggering through puddles, cursing red lights, fiddling with my CD player, and letting happiness come in fleeting cynical waves...

Friday, it may yet spawn something glorious. Must keep hoping. Something richer than an Instant Message installation...