In my head….

…like we should be able to grade friends or strangers on how they behave in public.

Today I wished I could carry little cardboard numbers around (like you see at diving competitions) and follow a particular person as he ambushed, bullied and terrorised everyone in his path.

I could almost hear the deep voice of the ice-skating-like commentary in the back of my head…

Well folks, it’s been a tough performance, and frankly I don’t know if he was up to scratch today, we’ll have to see what the judges say…. Here come the numbers – 5.4, 5.3, 5.2, 5.2, 5.1 and oooh look at that – an upset from the Australian judge – she gave him a 3!!! It looks like he’s out of medal contention and is definitly a big fat bully.

I can dream, can’t I?

…. and yes – I am the sort of person who makes up songs and ditties and sings to myself when I’m driving alone…

And as I arrive in Perth, one of my nearest and dearest is leaving us for the open arms of Geraldton Boy, who resides in pretty Tasmania (“pretty”. Not exciting… but very pretty).

It’s strange being on the other end of the farewell process – being the one left behind, waving as Warrior Woman rides off into the sunset. She’s vaguely more organised than me, and she seems calmer than I was. Or perhaps she’s not organised at all, and it hasn’t hit her exactly what needs to be done. Either way, I can’t help comparing how at peace she is with leaving to how manic I was when I left. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stay away for long… because I never really finished saying good bye to everyone.

Anyway – back to Warrior Woman. If I haven’t mentioned it before; I’ll miss you, honey. You’re incredible and strong and you inspire me everyday. Thank you for everything. Move to Melbourne soon so we all have excuses to come and visit you!

On a completely different note… Am completely surprised to say that I’m enjoying reading Cry Bloxsome’s debut book, Living Between Fucks. Started reading it yesterday and haven’t been able to put it down. It’s voyeurism in a familiar place. It’s strangely raw and appallingly funny. I picked it up thinking “I’m such a prude – the title is full on, the cover is alienating and having read Cry’s articles in the past, I doubt I’ll get it”. But surprise surprise, I’m loving the experience….

You thought I was a mate, you never saw me as a vulnerable person. You thought I could take the jokes, and the jovial ribbing, the digs at my weight and the ridiculing of my disastrous love life….

Do you think Kate Hepburn never looked in the mirror, and wondered if she looked okay?

Don’t you reckon even Cassius Clay had doubts about his strength?

Doesn’t it make sense to assume that Donald Trump must lie awake at night sometimes, wondering if he made the right business decisions.

Did you really think I had such a loud voice because I’m overly confident? Didn’t you ever wonder why I make such a big effort to be extroverted and friendly?

Aren’t we all hiding a little something from the world in general?

I might have mentioned this before, but I have a strange relationship with cook books, particularly monthly glossy food magazines.

I came from a household split fifty/fifty, some loved cooking with a passion – the act of cooking was almost more important than the actual eating. The rest of us (and this included me) could burn water, undercook an egg, create a meal with no flavour, live off takeaway and had no interest in the ceremony of cooking.

We referred to Food Magazines as Porn for Women.

Food Magazines would be drooled over by members of my family with a vaguely glazed and haunted look on their faces. Page by page would be turned slowly, as each detail was hungrily devoured. Certain pages would be fingered over and over till they were well thumbed and the spine would bend generously to the well favoured recipes. I thought it was funny at the time. Now I’m scared of how much that sentiment has seeped into my psyche.

As I got older I learnt to cook, began to love the choreography of mixing and baking, stirring and presenting. Cooking became not just about functionality, but also about aesthetic and desire.

Last night, as I sat at my local pub reading the latest Donna Hay Christmas Recipe Magazine, drooling over the decadent ingredients, I was struck by the furtive manner in which I was reading. I was sort of crooking my arm around the pages, and looking up often to make sure no one was watching me, or had noticed my reading material. I wouldn’t catch anyones eye. I was ashamed, but enjoying it as much as if I was readinga dirty magazine in public – sinfully funny. As soon as my friend arrived (much belatedly) I quickly hid it from him – stuffing it as far into my bag as it would go. And when he asked me what I was reading, I lied and said it was some old gossipy rag (as if that’s something I shouldn’t be ashamed of!!??) and changed the subject before he could ask to see it.

Oh the shame, the shame of reading Women’s Porn in public. Perhaps in the future it’s best left behind kitchen doors….

I’m always so impressed at how the elastic band of the Mother / Daughter relationship can stretch and shift, and grow saggy for a while, but eventually it always regains its shape. No matter how far you go or how annoying you become, she’s always there, just as annoying, but in a way that makes you love her even more.

Well, that’s how it is for me.

I’m one of the lucky ones, I know.

Re-establishing relationships has become one of the more interesting parts of coming back. For many reasons my group of friends has shifted and changed in the brief time I was away – some moved on, some took demanding jobs that leave them no time. Some simply “grew up” and moved in with lovers or fiancé’s and are suddenly not the reliable “Sunday afternoon at the pub” stalwarts they once were. Some have moved back to Perth after travels and journeys – one being my best friend and once-upon-a-time-love-of-my-life. Some were gone before I left, but their absence is felt more strongly now than before. One actually moved to London in the hope of spending time with me, a day after I came back to Perth. One of my London friends has coincidentally moved back to Perth, and a few others are visiting soon.

And my close group of friends expands, and contracts, moves in, moves out… repeats this a few more times, feeling out the boundaries, testing the waters, checking who’s still with us, who’s emotionally or physically moved away. And then the circle quickly settles; the moving arc joins in all places and we’re united…. and we find ourselves a motley crew of friends, confidants, dependants and cohorts.

After only two months it feels the way it should. Has it not always been this perfect? When did my life not contain these people?

Funny how the present doesn’t exactly erase the past, but it makes it feel a lot further away than it actually is.

*** which reminds me –my laptop crashed/died/ruined my life, and I’ve lost all my email addresses, postal addresses, birthdays and anniversary notes… please anyone with my email address, contact me if you’re able, and fill in the missing gaps….***

I’m sorry. To myself mostly. I let so much time slip by without  words.

One day my life changed within a second. A flash. A moment. One week later I was back in Perth, resenting my choices and wondering what the hell was going on. It was only supposed to be for 6 weeks.

2 months later, and it’s official. I’ve fallen in love with my city again. Having extended my stay three times at this stage, I’ve finally made the decision that perhaps I am ready to be back in Perth after all. Sooner than expected, it’s true, but it feels right. And I feel happy.

Why the long blog silence? Because I discovered indecision stole my vocabulary. But here is a hesitant first step back…