No Worries!

Tags

Alan Bennet, Barramundi, Barry Manilow, Billy Connolly, Blairgowrie, Blue-Eye, Brave, Carsten Holler, Castilian Spanish, Chai Latte, cone bra, Creole, David Shrigley, Eleftherios, Federation Square, Flinders lane, Frozen, Great Ocean Road, gum tree, heist, Ice, John Paul Gaultier, kanga bangas, koala, kookaburra, lingusitic convergence, McClelland Sculpture Park, Melbourne, Melchisedek, Mornington Peninsula, Mountain Goat Steam Ale, NGV International, no worries!, Panagia Kamariani, Pele Tower, Philip Larkin, Pidgin, possums, Poundland, Rab C Nesbitt, Red Claw, Red Hill Greek Orthodox monastery, rhinopithecus strykerl, sans soucis, shotgun wedding, snub nosed monkey, Sorrento, Talking Heads, The Island Bird by Neto, www.chrispattas.com, Yabby Lake, You'll Never Walk Alone

r

Dear Posse, or should that be ‘possums’?

You have probably all wondered why Candia has gone off radar,

but I haven’t got time to correspond with you individually. So,

maybe you can make do with reading the communal postcard I

sent to my dear girlfriends in Suttonford, who are probably even

now sharing its contents in Costamuchamoulah‘s must-seen

cafe, as they sip their Chai Lattes– an inferior blend to the original

which I have just imbibed in Flinders Lane, Melbourne.

You see, the price of an air mail stamp to Pomland- not to be

confused with Poundland- is almost as much as an additional glass

of Yabby Lake fizz for moi and, on this once- in-a-lifetime walkabout,

I am not about to downgrade to the Red Claw ‘drinkable’ variety.

So, G’day, mates! I’ve already been down The Great Ocean Road;

seen my first koala in the wild- thankfully unaccompanied by Putin,

One Direction, or Obama- gawped at a joey peeping out of a row of

vines and consumed my first Blue-Eye and Barramundi.  The latter

sounds like Barry Manilow, but is infinitely more subtle.  As far as I

know, it doesn’t attempt to sing.  I do seem to remember Big

Mouth Billy, the singing sea bass, so maybe one could form a

connection.

It’s so good to relax and the upgrade to Business Class from

Singapore was a down-payment of future bliss.  It took a few

moments before I realised that I was watching ‘Brave‘ in Castilian

Spanish on the back of the seat in front, but my personally

appointed steward soon tuned me in to the appropriate lingo.

Better than a remote in the control of The Husband and a tad

more obliging.  It’s good to be treated better than Dame Edna

Average.

I see Billy Connolly is coming to Melbourne shortly. The Scots’

community should comprehend his repartee, but no doubt his

Antipodean spouse has taught him a little linguistic convergence,

so the audience should probably work out that he is not speaking

some kind of Pidgin, or Creole.  Anyway, hybridisation and cross-

fertilisation seem to be the name of the game over here.  One minute

you are in Sorrento and the next you are driving through Blairgowrie.

Talk about fusion!

The Husband grew some roots in Federation Square as he

downed a Mountain Goat Steam Ale, while riveting his gaze

on the big screen’s events at the MCG and demolishing some

Kanga Bangas.

While Gus, Virginia, Diana, Murgatroyd, Dru and Nigel are

snowed in at the pele tower in The Borders, The Husband

and I are experiencing four seasons in one day down in The

Mornington Peninsula.  The chattering classes of Suttonford

have been silenced by the maniacal laughter of a kookaburra,

who stereotypically does sit in an old gum tree, as well as

crapping all over the garden fence every morning.  But, sans

soucis!  Even the mynahs’ cackles are shriller than some South

of England socialites.

I know I said that I only sent one postcard, but that isn’t

strictly true.

I did send Juniper a card of Jean Paul Gaultier’s teddy bear,

which he has cherished since the age of three and which sports

his prototype cone bra.

She would have loved the holographic talking heads on his models

in The NGV.  So would Alan Bennet!  Maybe I should have sent him a

postcard too, but he’s probably a friend of the designer and gets a

personalised one.

Even church-going is a lot more exciting here.  I don’t think Philip

Larkin would have been as lugubrious if he had removed his cycle

clips and gone into the Red Hill Greek Orthodox Monastery of Panagia

Kamariani.

The priest told me that his Christian name- ‘Eleftherios‘ means ‘Liberty’

and he certainly takes a few.  I mean, back in Suttonford, the staid

congregation are startled out of their professed sobriety by the

ringing of a ship’s bell; the crashing of the organ and a cacophany of

bells in the Easter Saturday service in Wintoncester Cathedral.  But

Father Tatsis is much more melodramatic.  Look up http://www.chrispattas.

com and you can see a Youtube clip of the sacerdotal gesture of

celebration to the pronouncement: He is Risen!  Brings a whole new

angle to the phrase ‘shotgun wedding‘!It is a pity that the latter day

Melchisedek didn’t wield his weapon at the teenage thugs who raided

the icon’s golden votive jewellery collection and who made off with a

heist worth $100,000.  Failing that, he could have maybe stowed the

stuff in a safe.  Unfortunately there is Ice in Paradise and I don’t mean

anything as innocent as the latest Frozen movie.

The liberating thing about Oz seems to be that you can act like a big

kid and you are actually encouraged to do so.  Case in point:  The

Husband climbing into the art installation The Island Bird by Ernesto

Neto at The NGV International.

He got tangled up in what appeared to be an unravelled string shopping

bag, or a coloured version of Rab C Nesbitt’s vest.  I was more attracted

by Carsten Holler’s golden, mirrored carousel and managed to restrain myself

from breaking into You’ll Never Walk Alone, though, if I had, it would have been

regarded as a valid interactional response. Like Oz itself, even the artwork

invites us to stand on our heads and re-imagine the world, reconsidering our

place within it.

So, whether it is wallpapering a gallery with anarchic David Shrigley

observations, or sculpting a Sneezing Snub Nosed Monkey -Rhinopithecus

strykerl (McClelland Sculpture Park), the infectious Aussie irreverent take

on life affects even its Un-Orthodox priests and makes one feel that,

indeed, there are No Worries!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachoooooooooooooooooooooooo!!

Frozen

Tags

apple ducking, Botox, Bratz, brownies, D H Lawrence, freezing eggs, Frieda Lawrence, Frozen, Glasgow School of Art, Lady Chatterley, liquid nitrogen, Marshmallow, Northern Lights, Norwegian fjords, ovopositor, Permafrost, Rate My Teacher, rosemaling, Sami, Stanislavski

Mum!  Hi!  How’s it going?

Drusilla had to snatch a chance to phone her mother.  She was on the

go all day, every day, at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl‘s

boarding house.  Still, it would be half term soon.  She would have to

start baking all those farewell Brownies.  She felt that the girls should be

baking them for her, but they made such a mess in the kitchen.

The Juniors were in the common room, watching Frozen.  It was a treat,

as everyone was up to date with their prep and it gave Dru a chance to

catch her breath.  Her Deputy was on maternity leave, so the lot fell largely

upon her.

Things had been quieter on the whole since the brazen Juniper Boothroyd-

Smythe had left and gone to Glasgow School of Art.  It had been a real

challenge, keeping her on track.  Still, her father had been very grateful

and donated a case of Pop My Cork! wine to the staffroom.

Great, dear!  Murgatroyd and I were contemplating a little cruise.  I quite

fancied The Norwegian Fjords, but forgot that they would be in darkness at

this time of year.

I suppose they might be illuminated by The Northern Lights? suggested Dru,

not really focussing on what she was saying, because she suddenly noticed

a paperback on the coffee table in the hall.

Wait a minute, Mum.  Look, I’ll phone you back.

Dru snatched up the offending title and stuffed it under her jumper.  Lady

Chatterley’s Lover!  She would have to have words with the Upper Fifth!

Oh, hi, Miss Fotheringay.  It was Isolde Percival, Scheherezade’s younger

sister. She was having a taster sleep-over to see if she liked boarding.

Have you seen my English reader?

Dru thought that Isolde might spread it around that the Boarding Mistress

of Weston House was in a state of infanticipation, if she were to notice the

bump under the magisterial sweater.  It would be a historical re-run, as Dru’s

mother had once been a boarding house mistress, and she had left with a

very pronounced bulge, namely Drusilla herself. That was in the days when

you implicitly signed away your fertility in your acceptance of your terms and

conditions.  However, the responsibility for the latest sprog entry on the

school waiting list had been passed on to Diana’s unwitting new beau,

MurgatroydSyylk.  Yet now all appeared to be forgiven and they were

planning to see what floated their current boat.

Aaaaaaaaaaatishoo! Dru utilised some kind of method acting which might not

have impressed Stanislavski.

Sorry,dear.  Just a moment.

She propelled herself into the staff office and pretended to look for a box of

tissues while she gave birth to the banned text.

Just my allergy, she apologised.  Oh, was this the book you were looking for?

Someone must have handed it into the office.  Is your name inside it?

Isolde looked inside the front cover.  Yes, Miss Fotheringay.  It’s definitely

mine.

It felt curiously warm.

Isolde, emm, is this a reader that you have been given as a whole class?

Yes, Miss Fotheringay.  It’s on the syllabus.  Mum’s been reading it too and

we discuss it at home.

Dru felt frigid, never mind frozen.

Very well. Run along and tell the Juniors that they need to stop the DVD

now and get their jammies on.

A chorus of Aaaaaws!! reached her ears.

Hi, mum!  Sorry about the interruption.  Did the girls read Lawrence when

you were on the staff?

Lawrence?

DH.

Oh, good heavens-yes!  Usually under the blankets with a torch.  We used to

confiscate the copies and read them ourselves.  It was still banned as a dirty

book until 1960.

Anyway, we are going to go to Oslo and then plan to go north to see as much

Sami culture as we can.  I want to learn about rosemaling.

Who is she?

No, it’s an art form, explained her mother.

Reminds me of the film the girls were watching.  Frozen, Dru

elucidated.

Sounds as if there’s a lot more fun in the old place than there was

in my day, remarked her mother.  The pervasive atmosphere then

was more like Permafrost, especially in the Senior Non-Smoking

Staffroom.

Anyway, must love you and leave you as Murgatroyd wants

me to book some reindeer thingy online.  Speak soon!

And she was gone.

Dru caught a glance of herself in the mirror.  Her complexion was

greyish and it was only five weeks into term.  Her face looked as if

it needed Botox, or a blowtorch, perhaps? As for the rest of her…

She wondered what Lawrence would have made of her type.  He’d

probably have thought her  barren and in need of a few visits to a

pheasant run.

Hmmm. At this rate she would need to apply to the governing body to ask

if they would pay for her to freeze some eggs.  She didn’t fancy having that

mannish science technician doing something drastic to her ovopositor with

liquid nitrogen. It had been bad enough when she’d had some warts

cauterised.

Well, Time’s winged chariot and all that…She was unlikely to meet Prince Hans

of the Southern Isles while she was in loco parentis to this lot.  If she was

ever to thaw out, she might just have to stop sticking the shards into her soul

and hitch up with good old Nigel.  At least he wasn’t a mythical devil teacher

taking his pupils through the world, distorting everything they saw in his weird

mirror.  He was more like Marshmallow (not!), the bodyguard in the film.

Trolls seemed to leave him alone, even on Rate My Teacher sites, as he was

wise enough not to raise his head above the parapet.

Yes, she could do a lot worse and, even though she didn’t look like a Bratz doll

and never had, she thought that she had had enough of the cerebral and might

just try to explore this vitality thing that Lawrence kept banging on about.

However, she didn’t intend seizing him- Nigel, she meant, not the novelist, by

the throat, as Mrs Ivy Bolton was said to have done, metaphorically-speaking,

to David Herbert’s poor old paralysed Clifford.  No, she’d take a gentler approach

and invite him – Nigel, she meant- to Weston House’s Apple Ducking Evening and

would see how it went from there. (She couldn’t envisage DH ‘dooking’ for apples.

Not with that huge chip on his shoulder. Frieda, maybe, but not him.  Mind you, she

couldn’t imagine Nigel being very successful at it either.)  Nor at other playful

activities, but- as the girls were wont to say,  Don’t go there!