I saw by your woolly urban perambulations, your snow-pink, over-wing clouds, and those inky pickled walnuts nestled artfully twixt a dimpled mug of artisanal stout and a good sharp cheese that many of you checked-in far from the ankle deep tar-suck of CharmingVille’s molten streets. You socialed from iced latitudes that required a nice big fleecy muff. I don’t blame you. I don’t usually take the weather personally but that Global Warming bitch has clearly decided multi-tasking is overrated and plumped for roasting just we Penhcentric fools for the forseeable. I didn’t fancy twisting in hell, counting blazing tumbleweeds. Even those no-mates “it’s-actually-great-to-be-here-without-all-the-traffic” fabulists who normally stay put fled to the cooling beer cannon of Temple Town or down to Novy Crimea to swagger, mankinied, with their deadeyed cohort of tweaker goons.
So this annual turnover I rolled up the mittens and sundry other furry coddlers, inflated the wading pool for a panting, newly neutered Bunster, and me and Love’s Helpmeet crossed our fingers on an MH flight all the way to Oz.
Autumn downunder fartarses between steamy ay.em. sweats to the dog park and freezing your tits off predawn in a godforsaken tent woven entirely of icicles. We stay with the folks in their cosy, artsy pad in the bed where my declining granddad finally fell asleep with Jesus. I used to find lying in a dead relative’s penultimate resting place disconcerting until, after some verbal biffo with the pre-Hubster back in the early years, I slept a few nights in a 172 backpackery on a mattress which was in fact the penthouse suite of a roach condo. I was the rooftop spa and gymnasium. All night legions of oily, stinking scuttlers roamed my generous real estate. I can’t tell you anything more without retching. After that character-building seven hours of intrusive entomology, kipping in dead poppa’s snooze box is a mere bagatelle.
It was a nice change to wake up to the liquid warble of magpies and the thud of the newspaper landing on the front porch instead of the sound of angle grinders and straining aircons. Over cups of tea and crumpets dripping with Leatherwood honey me and dad did the daily quiz off the funnies pages. I’ve been away so long I had no idea what LBL is, or that cars no longer have registration stickers. Meanwhile, Mum and Hubster would hilariously miscommunicate wheeling in the overnight bins and gasbagging with the postie.
I love mum and dad. They are funny and generous. Mother drops golden fifties like breadcrumbs – the trail that leads to coffee, zoo tickets, snacks. “Surely you’ll need a hot dog at IKEA.” She’s deaf, literally and figuratively, and won’t take no for an answer even when she’s “got her ears on.” Worried that they’ll run out and end up sharing Whiskas on toast, we put most of it back when she’s not looking – her purse is like a fairytale goose that just keeps egging us on.
Despite this cash splashing they hail from an era of wood rations and hand-me-down underpants made from the stuffing of next door’s hard-rubbished horsehair sofa. Having not caught up to TV, underfloor heating and flannelette jim jams, Tasmania in the ‘60s was exactly the same as London during the blitz, apparently. It was a cold old hole with few creature comforts and the warbaby olds still live back there in spirit, if not in body, up to their nostalgias in bread and dripping sandwiches. Now domiciled in the Mediterranean climes of Australia’s boganest capital, but still as environmentally conscious as they were back when they lay down in front of the dozers to Save The Lake, they’re loathe to switch on a heater or chuck another mallee root in the stove. Each chill eve they settle in for Antiques Roadshow under piles of crochet lap rugs bequeathed by Great Auntie Pat, the last of the Huon Valley’s notorious lady beekeepers. Unlike me, who packed a lightweight winter sarong and relished fall’s cool breath on my chicken-skinned shoulders, they get about with socks on their hands and legwarmers handspun from upcycled corn husks the minute the temperature dips below 18. Being a tropical person, Husband was appalled by the mercury’s vertiginous plummet. Throwing caution and street cred to the stiffening wind, he wore the duvet off our bed like a fat Michelin poncho for the entire 10 days we were there, even when he went New Year’s partying with some newfound Cambo mates at the Paradise Lakes Treatment Plant Scout Hall, requisitioned for the purpose by Adelaide’s sizeable Khmer contingent. They played nut kicking, ate a lot of eel, and hand danced to an authentically tone deaf cha-cha band. Just like home, though no ice in the beer. No matter what time of year, it’s always cold enough. Suorsdey Chnam Thmey.