It is a kind of nowhere, famous for nothing at all and has an
appeal because of just that.
― Robert M Pirsig, Zen
and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values
So it’s October, not quite officially even mid-October, and
the Christmas merchandise has begun to appear. Oh what joy. Summer holidays
approach.
You see, here on The Rock, the murky muddying overlap of
festive season with silly season becomes dazzlingly clear as the invasion
begins. And silly prevails. Forget popping in to town unless it’s 5.00 am, as
the number of cars far exceeds the number of places to park. Abandon hope of
finding edamame for that Asian salad: the freezer section is chockfull of Papa
Guiseppi and potato gems. And don’t even consider looking for a pinot gris to
complement the salmon because strawberry-kiwi-pine cider and choc-banana
cruisers seemingly proliferate as they fight for shelf space with Redbacks,
Bluetongues and Pure Blondes.
This weekend we get our pre-summer training. Thousands of
balding or grey-haired, genuine non-retro Ray-Ban, Levi 501 , black-t-shirt, and
leather wearing dudes will descend upon The Rock for a major motor-sport event and
take over our not-so-tidy town. They’ll be paying way too much to stay in
non-atmosphere-controlled shoebox-sized beach shacks, packing the fish ‘n chip
shop, and talking way too loudly about what a relief it is to be having a break
from the old ball and chain as they tap tap tap away at messages to said ball
and chain.
Shiny black and
silver beasts with Harley-style handle bars, or even cheeky sidecars, will rumble along
our pot-holed main street, revving menacingly at the round-abouts as their
what-middle-aged-crisis-? owners seek out somewhere to stop that will both
maximise impact on passers-by and minimise walking distance to a take-away
coffee. Sons of Anarchy helmets will
belie the allegiances of the wearers. These are some mean mofos in Oroton
undies.
Our cliff-top
abode is about a kilometre as the great grey gull flies from the track. So, if
today’s Antarctic blasts continue, we won’t hear a thing. But if they abate, the
drone of super-charged mosquitoes will float over the cow-dotted hill to
underscore this weekend’s activities. Mind you, albeit not significantly enough
to challenge the refrains of the near-constant activity of Lawn Mower Man (aka
Dr Dad the cowboy accountant).
Sticky-beaking
strangers will routinely invade our unmade dead-end street. The afterglow of
too many LED-campfires will sour the milkiness of the Milky Way. And there will
be a sudden increase in the number of wallabies wearing ear-muffs. But to be
honest, it’s pretty much only a gentle-jog-around-the-block kind of training
run for the Christmas crazies.
Seventy-two days
to go…
