When I was 10 I hurled all over the handbag department in Macy’s, San Francisco.
The eye-watering miasma from an adjacent fragrance counter, the hot fug of a superheated winter shop and a gutful of warm Orange Julius were too much for this little hippie. As my mortified, tether-end mother tissued the ralph off an oxblood Aigner saddlebag purse, the fastidiously coiffed shop assistant barely turned a hair as she eyed the dripping selection of technicolour accessories I’d just added to her display. She sat Mum and me down, both of us retching and watery eyed, and called for a janitor over the PA in a calm, euphonious drawl. Later an unfussed, sympathetic in-house nurse soothed me with lemonade in a sippy cup as I lay for a half hour in a tight white bed in the company sickbay. Americans were so nice, I decided. Perhaps even nicer than my own family. When it came time to leave, I clung to the doorman’s legs all the way to the taxi stand.
I’d almost forgotten this ignominious public upchuck until last Saturday here in CharmingVille. At precisely 1.45pm, me and my newly arrived niece were in a southbound tuk tuk on Riverside, tummies full of Metro fries, winging our way towards an afternoon of Snapchat by the pool.
As we sped through K-West corner, a midlife barang stepped into traffic and without warning mustered a passable Linda Blair right there in broad daylight. He missed us, only just, but dusted the toesocks of his surprised Khmer bride with what appeared to be 27 Screwdrivers and half a chicken schnitter.
“OH-EM-EFF-GEE. Like did that just literally like just happen?” squealed young Renesmee-Katniss-JonquilI-Pear by my side. “I can’t even. Hashtag DOUBLE YOU-TEE-EFF. Hashtag Whaaat? Hashtag Blaaart!” Luckily for Old Mate, 15 minutes of fame is now down to 10 seconds unless you take a screenshot. The traffic had slowed just long enough for my young charge to snap a selfie with spewling drunkard as photobomb, which she immediately sent to the internet. In less time than it takes to shotgun a 12oz Jack ‘n’ Coke, hundreds of spotty bonglords across Australia’s suburban badlands cacked themselves watching a feckless sexpat stagger through a day in his own personal struggletown.
Despite her confident use of social media, my sister’s youngest is also a little wobbly on her feet right now. Thanks to her naturally trusting nature, youthful sense of adventure and some catastrophically mean girls, she’s momentarily dropped out of a parochial lucerne-league Snob College in a well-known farming district in southern Australia. In a narrative arc worthy of a postmodern GOT subplot, she took a part-time job packing groceries into Range Rovers, as it happens mostly belonging to the mums of the malicious little crackers who were giving her grief.
This was not ideal, so for the next few weeks she’s calling CharmingVille home, taking a breather and, to my surprise since I’m not a fan of Devil’s Spawn per se, refreshing my air supply too. Over brunchtime bellinis we’ve talked boys, boobs, booze, books, bleach and buds of both varieties among a million other cool auntie/cooler kmoy subjects. We both agree Tony Abbott is an utter knob. We disagree on acrylic nails. I’m not keen on short shorts or hair extensions, but I’ll defend her right to wear them, especially in the face of Bindi Irwin and the other smug bodyshamers who’ve conspired to make this sensational young woman’s life a misery.
Leaving Marital HQ prior to our ooky puke encounter, my neighbours mistook us for mother and daughter. I was stoked. I find myself enthralled by her Saturday-night war stories and slip into ‘aiights’ with ease. She even calls me by name, the ‘auntie’ prefix dropped. Things were never like this when I was a niece, let alone a 10-year-old kid stood in a puddle of my own creation. It’s sick. But in a good way.
Later, as we sallied past that heaving old feller, I thought to myself: ‘There but for the grace of…’ etc, etc. “Hashtag YOLO motherfucker!” was what I actually said, though.
Love it!