Curse of the big hair (Annandale, NSW)

05Dec09

I write this from the streets of Annandale, Sydney. 9 or so pm. Hot but not altogether bothered, although this impromptu getaway could be longer. Who’d have a day job. [That was a rhetorical question – I don’t want an answer to it – so I am not going to dignify it with a question mark.]

I’m considering a dip in the pool. I think you call it a plunge pool – the opposite of an Olympic pool, but there are no goldfish or lilypads in it, so I think I am safe. I’m a little bit scared of the wildlife – but these are suburban dwellings and not the outback, or so I tell myself. If you never hear from me again after this, I may well have died at the hands of a garden variety skink. I’ve seen a few of those today.

I forgot my togs. (I also forgot my camera, sunglasses and I’m sure there was also something else, which I have now forgotten, ironically enough.) I managed to lose a vital piece of documentation in between customs and quarantine/big silver x-ray machines, and thought I might be stuck in no man’s land with officious khaki-clad Aussies for the rest of my days. But then I found the elusive smart card – after sort-of-frantically circling the baggage carousels looking for a small piece of fallen paperwork – right down in the fragile parcels depot. And I walked free, my duty free a-clinking.

I flew no frills (but not as no frills as Jetstar – never again, mark my word). This was fine but I got moved down the plane just before takeoff and all my shit was in the overhead locker further back in the plane. I was in the window seat and stuck, sans everything, including any time-telling mechanism. First off I tried to sleep and thought I did pretty well at it, but I had no way of knowing. Turns out I think I slept for a maximum of 3 minutes (albeit a deep sleep which restored my inner energies and left me wide-eyed and bored as fuck). The rest of the flight was interminable. I didn’t even have a pen with which to attempt the beginners’ Sudoko. I asked the cabin attendant (is that the pc word for them these days?) and she said she had given hers to someone and that she could lend it to me after, but then she never came back. The guy in the aisle seat was watching True Blood on his laptop. I toyed with the idea of asking him to share half his ear phones with me so I could watch too. Of course I would never actually go ahead and do it, but it’s the sort of thing I torture myself mentally with – the prospect that I might, or could – and then I usually ponder the person’s hypothetical response to my imposition. Like the time I kept contemplating asking the 10 or so year-old boy sitting next to me to hold my hand for comfort during an especially bumpy descent into Wellington. I didn’t, of course, but I did manage to disturb myself with the compulsion.

It’s kinda hot here. Humidity does nothing for my big hair. My skin is fairly well luminous though. Attributable more to L’Oreal than baking in the sunshine, though, I think. This year I tried to bring big hair back, but it never caught on, and now I am sick of it. Maybe I’m more trend follower than trend starter.

You can’t wear lots of black here, and sheets are no good at night. It’s nice, though. The birds make funny noises, the sky is blue and Lily is the cutest wee milk-guzzler in the universe.

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