Bad Hair Day

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Waiting for Spiderman.

I am scared of spiders setting up home in my nostrils while I sleep, which is why I have been sleeping on a futon mattress on the floor in the non-Bat Cave bedroom for about 2 weeks now.
Part of our ceiling has decided to make a run for it this last month and is slowly coming away from the rest of the ceiling.
This means there’s about a one inch gap that goes directly into the roof space.
You know what lives in the roof space? Spiders. Spiders live in the roof space. Did you guess spiders?
Shortly after I discovered the gap in the ceiling, I discovered the spiders traipsing through it.
I’m not phobic of them; I would just prefer that they not crawl on my face.
Husband called the nice real estate people and they said that they would send a man to look at the spiderhole.
I thought the Spiderman would come fairly quickly since, you know, there are spiders coming through my roof, but no.  He’s apparently a very busy Spiderman.
He’s probably running around New York City kissing girls upside down and other weird shit like that while I’m sleeping on the floor.
He came to look at the spiderhole one day, but I didn’t see him. Presumably he swung in on a web, stuck to the ceiling and put his face near the hole to see in. Possibly he heard me coming home and scuttled in under the fridge so I wouldn’t see him. You know how spiders are. They’re shy little creatures until they bite you in the eyeball.
He’s due back to fix the spiderhole soon. As early as tomorrow I’m told. I hope he’s happy to seal his furry little 8 legged brethren back into the roof space so they can no longer come through and try to mate with my eyelashes because while husband seems to be enjoying it, like it’s a camping holiday, it also seems as though I’m camping which is probably why I hate it so much.
I’m pretty much ready to move back in to The Spiderman Room regardless of my tiny arachnid friends. I’m tired and sore and I have weird dreams. Perhaps I’ve already been bitten by one of them and this I’m experiencing the radioactive blood change over? I hope not because I look terrible in Lycra.

Nan

My Nan passed away earlier this year.
I grew up surrounded by her love and strength and buttered toast fingers.
This weekend just gone, she would have turned 91. I have missed her every day since she's been gone, so I thought I would put up something that I wrote for her and read at her funeral, though if you were there, doubtless you wouldn't have been able to understand me through all the crying.

To Nan,

I want people to know how wonderful you were, how brave, how strong. I want you to know how much I loved you, how much I still love you even now that you’re gone. I respected and admired you so much.

You used to mind me when Mum went out.
You taught me to always sift flour twice when making cakes. I’m too lazy to do that. Maybe that’s why your cakes always turned out better than mine.
You made me scrambled eggs for tea when I was sick.
You listened to my new CD’s with me and pretended you liked them.
You made the best sponge cake out of any of us so we all gave up trying.
You and I used to go to church with Mum. I remember one Sunday we went and you scratched your leg for the whole hour because you felt tickly... even when we got up to get communion. On the way to the car you realised the thing that was tickling you was a grasshopper that had gotten tangled in your petticoat. You set it free and laughed.
We used to play games together until I moved away. You tried to teach me poker, but I could never remember the rules. You used to bet with Anticols and their wrappers, which were worth less. We would play dominos for hours and you never once let me win, because there was no lesson in that. Since you, I’ve never found anyone that could beat me at it.
I’ll never know how you fit such spirit into your small frame. You saw so much, lost so many. Friends, brothers, sisters, your husband, your daughter, but were still the kindest and most patient person I knew.
I’m sorry I wasn’t with you more towards the end, Nan. I let other things get in the way. But I always loved you. Will always love you, and will forever carry a part of you in my heart.

Rest in peace.



Queen of CBF

I do 99% of all the cooking in our house. I’m not complaining about it, I love it. I love to cook and I love to bake. My Grandma is an amazing cook and my Mum can decorate a cake like nobody’s business, so I guess I picked it up from them. My Nan made the best sponge cake in the world and no one can prove differently. I have recipes from my great great grandmother that would stun your tastebuds. They were and still are hardworking women who cook with care and devotion.
I never had a bought cake for my birthdays. My Mum would stay up all hours of the day and night crafting her wonderful creations and my Grandma is notorious for over catering every event and making it all from scratch. Packet cakes were a thing of myth and legend in our house.
While the food we ate was not necessarily gourmet or in line to win any pressure tests in the Master Chef kitchen, it was good food. Proper food made with love and care and potatoes.
Cooking for your loved ones is in my blood. I mean there’s not as much space, what with all the alcohol and stuff, but it squeezes in.
All of that being said, I have lazy weeks. I feel I’m entitled. I work full time, and I have hobbies and, you know... interests and stuff. They take up time. Sometimes, I declare myself the Queen of Can’t Be Fucked, and it’s on those nights when I’m cooking dinner that I find myself thinking of all the things I would rather be eating.

Thing I cooked: Slow cooked char siu pork.

Thing I would have rather eaten: Cereal.
Cereal in the morning is boring. There are 4000 things better to eat in the morning than cereal. But, cereal at night? GENIUS!  I love cereal at night! There is nothing tastier. It’s so easy and convenient! No bowl? No milk? No worries! Grab the box, park yourself on the sofa, and stuff handfuls of it into your mouth.

Thing I cooked: Crispy skin chicken with yellow noodle.

Thing I would have rather eaten: Popcorn.
Oh popcorn, there are no words to describe how much I love your crunchy buttery salty flavours of joy. I love you at the movies, I love you at home, and sometimes I love you in the middle of the night on the way back from the toilet. I especially love you as a meal replacement. When Husband was away on his snow trip, I ate popcorn for dinner 2 nights in a row and was so content, I went to bed with a huge fake butter smeared smile.

Thing I made: Vietnamese caramel chicken.

Thing I would have rather of eaten: An entire loaf of garlic bread.
There are instructions on garlic bread packets. They tell you that you can cook it in the oven or in the microwave. In the oven? For 15 minutes? Bitch, please. That shit is going in the microwave for a minute on high. I will then tear into the scalding first piece and burn my tongue. I will continue eating until the garlic butter can no longer be mistaken for anything other than frozen. Back in the microwave it goes while I hover near the door jiggling in anticipation. Also, it’s Italian. That makes it automatically fancy.

Thing I made: Wantons

Thing I would have rather eaten: Corn chips or pretty much anything that can go straight from the packet and into my open mouth.
Things that can be transferred from packet to mouth with no effing about have got to be the God of lazy foods. Open the packet, pour into mouth. It shits all over hand folding 40 fucking dumplings to impress dinner guests. Next time I have people over, everyone is getting a large bag of some form of crisp. If I like them, they’ll get Red Rock Deli. If I don’t like them, they get Homebrand. You want an entree? Here’s a fun sized bag of Twisties. Knock yourself out.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s dinner time and there’s a PopTart with my name on it.

Guilty Shame Spiral

I feel guilty about a lot of things.
Husband attributes this to my family’s Catholicness. Catholics are like the Olympic gold medallists of guilt. And not the Winter Olympics either, the real Olympics.
He seems to find it amusing as he does not possess such an emotion.
Let me give you an example... We will have something delicious. Husband will want my delicious thing. He will ask if he can have it. I will say no. Husband will sit in silence and wait. I will begin to feel guilt. I will feel anger at feeling guilt. Then I will feel shame. Then I will give Husband the thing he wanted.

Husband will be gleeful and will laugh at me. He will point and emphatically declare “It’s because you’re CATHOLIC!” I will feel a sense of loss of my delicious thing.
The guilt is not limited to Husband and delicious things though.
I feel guilty about drinking anything fizzy before midday. I think my Grandma instilled that rule in my head, and now, 6 years after I moved out of home, I will still feel guilty for wanting Coke Zero before lunch.

I feel guilty about calling in sick to work, even when I’m legitimately sick. Especially when I’m legitimately sick... I agonise over the decision. Then I have to ask Husband what he thinks I should do. He usually tells me to go to work. So I struggle around the house, flopping from one room to another trying to get ready until I feel so awful all I can do is lay on the floor. Then I get all torn up inside and have to debate the issue a thousand times again in my head. Logically I know it’s not the end of the world, but my conscience seems to think it is.

I feel guilty about buying anything that’s just for me. If it can’t be used for the house or if Husband can’t share it, down the spiral I go.

I feel guilty about not holding the lift doors open for people even if they’re really far away and I’m running late.

The guilt doesn’t go away within the day though. Sometimes not even in the week... Sometimes it lives in my soul for close to two decades.
When I was a little girl, I was playing out the front of my house. I found a little worm and I put him on my hand. I held him there, and he bit me. I pulled him off and threw him into the gutter and sort of stomped on him. He started to bleed. I felt so bad. My grandfather explained to me that he was a leech and that it wasn’t his blood I was seeing. It was most likely my own.

To this day I think about that little leech and wonder where he went after he got hosed away. Maybe he was a Catholic leech. Maybe he feels guilty about biting me and is wondering where I am today and what happened to me. Probably not though, because leeches are almost certainly smarter than that.

I have a strange memory.

I can be counted on to forget anything that may be relevant to my job and in high school I was never able to remember anything that related to my subjects.
I once turned up to an HSC exam holding only a pen and said “Community and Family Studies? I do that? Shit. Well... What’s it on?”
Ask me to recall the name of the Premier of Victoria and at best you’ll get a confused face and perhaps a mumbled “Errr... Bob Carr?”
But then, there are song lyrics and random trivia facts. You want to know all of the words to an Abba song? I’m your girl. You’re confused about the second verse in the Puretones 1998 hit, Addicted to Bass? No need for Wikipedia, just give me a call.
It’s practically a fucking superpower.
This seems strange to anyone who has known my relatives for any length of time. My Grandma is kind of infamous within the family for getting song lyrics wrong. You know the line in I Will Survive, where Gloria Gaynor belts out “Weren’t you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?” For a solid section of time my Grandma thought it was “Weren’t you the one who tried to rape me with your eyes?”
Now, I’ve never been one to stand in the way of a good eye fuck, but I could never work out if that was what she meant or if she thought they would somehow detach their eyeballs from their optic nerve and try to penetrate someone with them.
There was a song released in 1980 that said “Oh Vienna...” and for a while my lovely Grandma thought it was “Old Piano.” Now, lest you think my Grandma is old and deaf and senile, when Ultravox released Vienna, she was only 36.
You can see why it’s so astounding that not only do I get the lyrics right, but I can somehow store them in my brain, sometimes laying dormant for a decade, and then pull them out and start singing them like it’s still the year 2000 and Faith Hill is coaching her boyfriend on basic respiratory technique.
And believe me; you want me on your trivia team. It won me a hat on my honeymoon. What is an Alligator Pear? Which country produces Panama Hats? How many calories do you consume while licking a stamp? Put down your iPhone, people, I’m here to save the day.
Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t sleep on a mountain of encyclopaedias, like mythical dragons sleep on huge treasure piles. I don’t get up at 3am to log onto the net and click through 47 pages of OMG Facts either. Well, not often...
There’s just something in my brain that retains all sorts of useless information about the bathing habits of Gypsies.
I don’t know why that is, but perhaps it will save me from some embarrassing social faux pas when next I meet a Romany woman standing downstream from a horse.  

Pancetta is just snobby bacon. It's snacon.

Sometimes I draw things for no reason.

The Toilet Incident

I wake up in the middle of the night a lot and Husband very rarely does.

On one such occasion I woke up to go to the bathroom. As I’ve said, our house is a very old house.
The toilet used to be an outhouse, but is now encased within the main part of the house. To get there, you need to walk out of our bedroom, past the spare room, past the lounge room, past the bathroom proper, through the kitchen, past the laundry and then into the toilet. It is a long, arduous and dark journey. Frequently on the way back, I have to stop in the kitchen for supplies of soda water or Waterfords Portello.

This night I had noticed Husband sleeping all wrapped up in the sheet as he normally does, and gotten up to start the trek to the toilet.

I was so tired. There was drool dried to the side of my face and one of my eyes was stuck together.

I noticed that the toilet light had been left on. Husband has a habit of doing this. He always leaves lights on. He will turn on every light in the house and leave it that way. He will turn on the heater in a room that no one is in and leave it on for 5 hours to “pre-heat”. So, nothing was too unusual about the light being on so I flipped it off and didn’t think much of anything else about it. Then, I got closer to the door.

It seemed as though someone was in there. But that couldn’t be possible. Husband was sleeping in bed. I had seen him all tucked up in the sheet! While I was standing there staring at the door, I picked up small boy dog. Small girl dog didn’t exist then. I don’t know what help I thought a 6 month old pug puppy with a nervous disposition would be, but there you go. I looked at the small boy dog and went to put my hand on the door knob when I heard the toilet flush.

Going through my head was something to this effect: OhholyChristthetoiletjustflushed. It’s ok. Calm down. It was probably just automatic. Probably just a plumbing thing. Probably just did it by itself. It’s fine.

As I’m thinking this I’m squeezing small boy dog very tightly, like a shedding, wheezing, useless security blanket with eye snot.

Then I noticed I was kind of hiding behind a very small dog. Ok, not kind of... I was definitely hiding behind a very small dog. After deciding to be a motherfucking adult about the situation, I grabbed the handle of the door and held it closed so no one could get out, for there was decidedly someone in there.

I gave myself a pep talk.

“Man up!” I said inside my head. “Just open the door! Open the door! What are you? Scared? What’s the worst that could happen? OPEN THE DOOR! There’s nothing for it! You’ll just have to open the door.”

So I opened the door, just a little...

OH HOLY FUCKING JESUS CHRIST THERE IS SOMEONE IN THERE. WHY IS THERE SOMEONE IN THERE? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

Then I looked properly... It was Husband. He was confused as to why I had turned the light off on him and appeared to be wielding a small tired dog.

Turns out that the bundle in bed that I thought was Husband, was just the sheet rolled up in a distinctly Husband type shape and I had absolutely shat myself worried for nothing.
Upon commencing the trek back to bed with Husband, he asked me why I hadn’t thought to wake him up to tell him a maniac murderer or burglar of some description had broken in and was weeing in our toilet. He also pondered on the fact that I hadn’t walked the 3 feet back into the kitchen to get a very large, very sharp knife to wave at the urinating intruder.
What can I say? This was the closest thing I had at the time... Tell me you wouldn’t be scared.

Motherfucking Batman

I live in an old house. It has lots of wood panelling. At some point in history this was considered attractive. Maybe around the time copious amounts of hallucinogenic drugs were being taken. Maybe not. But probably.
This, combined with the outside shutters makes the bedroom quite dark. We have blinds that cover most of the window, as blinds are supposed to.
However, the sun is a cheeky bastard. A sneaky, cheeky, ninja bastard.
The sun will shimmy on in through the tiny spaces that the blinds leave between the windows and the blinds and shine its evil light directly into my eyes at absurd times of the morning. It’s like it’s aiming for me with tiny sniper lasers of brightness.

This is unacceptable to me. It so happens, also, that across the road from my house is a store. A very big store that sells vacuum cleaners. It has lights all over its awning that flash on and off at regular intervals all night. It’s like there’s a really lame disco in my bedroom and no one is having fun.
One night lying in bed amid the awkward strobing of 47 light bulbs, an idea came to me.

Motherfucking Batman!

I would turn this room into my very own Batcave. I would be motherfucking Batman! Just without the homoerotic subtext. Or the saving people bit. Or the billions of dollars. Or the butler. Or the outfit. Or the nemesis’s (nemesi?). But apart from all that, just like Batman!
I leapt out of bed and ran to the study to snatch up some tape. Returning to the bedroom, I turned on the light and began to tape the edges of the blinds to the wood panelling that the windows are set in.
Husband was understandably confused. He was even more so when I would only answer his increasingly puzzled questions with “Motherfucking Batman!”
My taping duty complete, I climbed back into bed and turned off the light. Total and complete blackness, pure and unrelieved dark abounded. It was black as pitch and scary as shit. It was perfect.
When visitors come over, I like to put them in there with the lights off and close the door. Sometimes I even let them come out again.

Abandonment

Husband recently went away for a week to the snow with a couple of friends and his Dad.
It was a boy’s week where they would ski and pour schnapps on fresh snow for some reason. As a girl my very essence would ruin such a week. I’d infect their schnapps with my oestrogen and presumably my vagina would get in the way of everyone’s skis, so I was left at home.

I’ve spent nights away from Husband before, but I haven’t spent a night alone in an empty house for 5 years or so. It was a strange experience.

Night 1 of abandonment: Ate frosting out of can for breakfast with spoon. Husband not here to be judgey with his judging eyes. Did lots of things to be busy today. Stayed up as late as I could so I would sleep well. Bed feels like whole empty continent. So much space! Might be bed agoraphobic... afraid of too much bed space. Scary noises seem scarier. Sniff pillow to see if it smells like husband like they do in movies. Immediately regret decision because, in fact, pillow does smell like husband. Husband not smell great. Have strange empty feeling all day like have maybe lost limb or possibly really need to poop, discern feeling is loneliness.

Miss husband 11 out of 15.

Night 2 of abandonment: Bed still feels strangely empty. Like small island rather than whole continent. Bed feels like empty Tasmania but with less apples and inbreds. Enjoyed sleeping and facing left last night without being breathed on. Awoke this morning to all the covers still on me. Noises not so scary tonight. Annoyed at loud stompy neighbours. Wish for someone to complain loudly to. Whole house smells like fresh baked soda bread. Feel superior to almost everyone. Laugh to self about husband being cold in snow while self is warm and smelling of bread. Tell self that husband is most likely warm inside also. Tell self that that’s not as funny and imagine husband in snow with one missing sock and one missing glove. Realise I am talking to self like crazy person.

Miss husband 6 out of 15.

Night 3 of abandonment: Bed is size of medium city. Like Melbourne. Only not so cold. Feeling very independent. Did same regular activities but by self. Got given lots of compliments today. Made self feel floaty and light. Feel am strong independent woman. Sing Destiny’s Child songs in head. Think “Fuck it!” and sing them out loud. Too tired to notice scary noises.

Miss husband 1 out of 15.

Night 4 of abandonment: Went to first aid course today. Learned how to save peoples’ lives and distribute band aids. Feel is noble cause. Go home and consider practicing bandages on small girl dog. Small girl dog gives self small dog glare. Consider practicing bandages on small boy dog as substitute. Small boy dog looks suspicious and frightened. Cuddle small dogs instead. Go to Coles to buy supplies for dinner party tomorrow night. Get rained on. Get rescued by friends husband who sees self walking in the rain and offers self ride home. Self gratefully accepts. Consider stealing other husband. Not for nefarious sexual purpose, but light in lounge room is flickering and self is too short to change globe.  Marinate pork belly and clean house til early hours of the morning. Dance around to music a lot. Dance badly. Bed seems to be size of small country town. Perhaps Broken Hill. But with less miners.

Miss husband 3 out of 15.

Night 5 of abandonment: Had dinner party tonight. But less fancy. Ate on sofa with plates on laps. Tell self I am classy person. Girls from work came over and played Wii and watched Masterchef. We laughed lots and cuddled dogs. There was a doggy visitor for my small dogs. He was even smaller. I wanted to steal him and his softness and keep him in my pocket. After friends went home self turned music on and danced around house again. Feel this is becoming habit. Tried to rap along with Snoop Dogg but am too white. Tried to shake booty, but lack of booty made this task difficult. Tidied house and fell into bed which is size of Elsternwick but with less bagel shops.

Miss husband 1 out of 15.

Night 6 of abandonment: Slept strange last night. Have given self sore neck.  Decide to treat self with pamper day. Go and get massaged by Thai lady who stretches legs very far back. Decide to get facial too. Thai lady squishes cut up bits of orange on face. Strange feeling. Go and get manicure and pedicure. Decide to go and get wax. Request eyebrow and Brazilian wax. Waxing lady very vicious. Everything finished in 8 minutes though. Can’t quite walk properly due to trauma caused to vagina by hair being forcibly removed by lady who seems to have personal vendetta against said hair. Go home and realise self has weird bits of orange stuck in eyebrows. Feel awkward. Turn on music and dance around house again. Bed is perfect size for sleeping in. Stretch out lots and can touch the sides.

Miss husband 0 out of 15.

Night 7 - Last night of freedom: Didn’t leave house all day. Stayed in pyjamas on sofa most of day and read book. Small girl dog and small boy dog slept on sofa next to me. Very content in own company. Watched bad television without huffing noises from husband. Enjoyed self enormously. Bed is still perfect size. Sleep on stomach like star fish. Make ocean noises to self and pretend am starfish. Stop making ocean noises because thought of water makes bladder feel extremely full.

Miss husband 0 out of 15.

Night 8 – Return of husband: Have to wake up early to achieve things today. Take self to dance on tram, where am confused for stripper. Enjoy dance class immensely. Feel that perhaps self dances like spastic who is deaf and devoid of rhythm. Return home to clean house properly for husbands return. Do washing up. Give up on cleaning house and read book. Hear husband putting key in door lock and stupid smile spreads involuntarily on face. Husband comes in and puts dirty things all over mostly clean house. Get mad at husband and wish he would go skiing again and take his dirty clothes and washing up with him so house not smell like boy. Bed feels entirely too small. Like am sleeping in child's racing car bed with Bigfoot.

Wish husband would go away 11 out of 15.

I find myself being confused for a prostitute more than is normal.

I find myself getting confused for a prostitute more than is normal.

In the last few weeks, I’ve been mistaken for a prostitute three times, a drug dealer twice and a stripper once.

I’m not entirely sure why this is.
I think perhaps, it may have something to do with the fact that I have been spending an inordinate amount of time waiting on street corners outside of public toilets. Not for the purposes of selling drugs, lap dances or 15 minutes in the back of a 1986 Holden Calais. Usually just for Husband to finish pottering about and drive me home.

I don’t feel that I dress particularly prostitutey. I will freely admit that I have never known a prostitute, so am not the highest authority in prostitute couture and therefore may unwittingly be at the cutting edge of fille de joie fashion.

I was on the tram one Saturday and a man sat next to me and asked where I was going. I told him I was going to dance.
He looked at me sideways and said “Perhaps I’ll come and watch. I’ll have to go to the ATM first though. What’s the minimum amount for a dance?”

I had to tell him that he’d be sorely disappointed as it wasn’t that kind of dancing.

He gave me sad eyes and moved seats.

I don’t know the motivation behind walking up to a woman and asking if she accepts money for sex. Especially not in the way that I was approached by one particular gentleman.

“Ay... How much?” he said...

“For what?” I asked.

“Sex.” Said he. “Or drugs. Either. I have cash.”

“Oh... Well... I don’t have any drugs. I believe if you just follow this street down here though there’s some people leaning against the wall that might be able to help you out. As for the sex, I’m not a prostitute, but thank you for the enquiry.”

“Not even for...” he paused dramatically here, and whipped a note out of his pocket with a flourish. “... a fifty?”

As tempting as his offer was, I still had to decline.

When approached another time, I also declined the offer on the basis that I was not in fact a prostitute. I was looked up and down and asked in a skeptical tone “Ya sure?”

This last Saturday just gone, at around 11:30 in the morning, a man wandered over to me and said, not unkindly “You working this corner? The day shift ones are usually really desperate and manky looking... you look pretty clean though.”

I’m not sure what response he was after. Thank you? Actually, I am quite desperate and a little manky, but I just hide it well?

I don’t know why people confuse me for a sex worker and why they seem to be reluctant to believe that I’m not one, not even for a fifty.

Kebabavan

I am from the Western Suburbs of Sydney. Say what you want about them, but you’ll have a hard time convincing me that better kebabs are to be had anywhere else in Australia.

No matter what time of the day or night the urge strikes you, you can always venture out and find a kebab stuffed full of tabbouli and happiness.

My friends and I used to drive to Granville at 3 in the morning for baklava and hookahs, and you could always get a kebab.

I live in Melbourne now, and while the souvlaki is wonderful and the gyros are a revelation, I am yet to find the perfect kebab.

I have had strange pocket bread, a whole parsley plant masquerading as tabouli, smiling red headed English girls cooking chicken on a George Formanesque grill, but nothing to compare to my beloved kebabs of the West.

Where are your balding hairy knuckled Lebanese guys swearing at wall mounted televisions? Where are your polite old brown skinned men saying “Habibti, for you, no worries about extra 50c for cheese. You married? I have sons!”

I found myself, on a Monday night just passed, standing on a street corner in St Kilda outside of a kebabavan. A kebabavan, for those of you not in the know, is a caravan from which kebabs are sold.

Husband and I had just finished dancing in Richmond at 8:30 and were going to go to the imaginatively named Richmond Kebab House which we had spotted on the way in to the studio. However when we had finished, it was closed for kebabs. The giant skewers with unnatural meat stuck to them had been taken down. I was devastated.

Undeterred though, we decided that we would venture forth into the world to find a kebab shop and sate our cravings for creepy shaved meat stuffed into rolled up bread.

3 closed kebab shops later, we ended up at the car wash kebabavan. Yes. It is a caravan selling kebabs inside a car wash located next to a gay bar. No. I don’t know why.

Inside the kebabavan was a very nice man who was from none of the countries where kebabs are from, who did a noble job, considering what he was working with. My heart was still sad with the results though.

Husband said to me, “What’s with you? Why do you care so much? They still taste good. Who cares if they’re like the Sydney ones?”

“I do.” I said to him. “I’m from the west! I need kebabs like people from the Northern Beaches need racism and the colour beige! I need kebabs like people from Newtown need vegetarianism and dreadlocks! I need kebabs like people on Oxford Street need short shorts for men and closed toed shoes!”

Coming from the Northern Beaches originally though, maybe he was too busy being racist and wearing beige to understand the importance of decent kebabs.