anywhere

I am sitting in the office
As bored as bored can be
Oh give me some excitement
The sort that comes for free

Whisk me to a country
That is mystical and weird
Full of noises, sights and fragrances
And really wicked gear

Or take me to the circus
Where there's strange, uncommon folk
Or give me lots of money
Or tell a few good jokes

Or take me to a party
Where there's lots of booze and drugs
Or feed me up with coffee
In giant coffee mugs

Oh, get me to my lover
Ah, get me to a beer
Or let me visit Mother
Anywhere but here.

19th July 1998

when you have no pockets

IN the early 90s I was a lighting designer for a theatre company called Arden Productions. We did Shakespeare and Marlow with a camp twist. I was the straight girl, although the residential bi-sexual star always got excited whenever he saw 'signs' of lesbianism in me; like the time I turned up to rehearsal in bike shorts and Blundstone boots with hairy legs and short hair-do one day. But I digress...
After a show one night,  a few cast and crew came up to see me in the bio-box. I rolled a joint, as you do, and, for want of a safe place to keep it, I popped it down my cleavage. This was an ideal spliff pocket: the joint was cosily nestled where it couldn't possibly break or be detected as we made our way out to the dark street to smoke it.

We found a discreet patch of nature strip and stood expectantly in a circle. Someone produced a lighter. I reached down into my special place to retrieve the object of our anticipation. But it was gone. Oh shit. It must've fallen down inside my top. No, not there. I checked the cleave again. I prised my breasts apart and shoved my fingers down to my belly button, but I couldn't find the joint. We all started checking the ground, hunched over and lifting our feet up carefully to avoid stepping on the joint. En masse, we retraced our steps all the way back to the bio-box in the theatre. The joint was lost, or so it seemed, until I looked into my bosom once more. There it was. It had been there all the time. Snug as a bug in a rug.

Ten years later, I was in a 60s girl group covers band. We did a 3 hour show to appreciative crowds at RSLs and football clubs and Tabarets all over rural Victoria and NSW. We wore short skirts, back-combed wigs, false eyelashes and so much make-up we looked like drag queens if you got too close. At the end of the night we'd each be handed a wad of cash. My costume didn't have pockets, so I'd pop the notes into my bra. Usually a little got spent on drinks afterwards, so I'd have a few coins down there as well by the time we got to the musty motel room at 3am. Drinking would continue as we removed our make-up and got undressed before stumbling into bed. Every morning after one of these gigs, I'd wake up and drag myself to the bathroom where I would discover, looking at myself in the mirror, all my notes and coins still stuck to my boob, still clinging there even after taking off my bra the night before.

Blanche and the Angel of Youth

I never sign up for services on the phone. I simply cannot agree to sell raffle tickets, and monthly direct debit donations to charity are a no-no. So much can go wrong. Like the time when I agreed to swap electricity suppliers over the phone: I ended up being billed by two companies for the same kilowatt hours. I've lost track of how many untouched books of raffle tickets I have lying around the house. I mean, when do I get to sell tickets? And to whom? And then there are direct debit charity donations. This money that comes out of your bank account every month and you forget about it, get overdrawn, arsehole banks charge $40 for being overdrawn so you're even more overdrawn. So there you have it. I'm committed to fiscal integrity. I feel safe….

Until this morning, when I disembarked from the City Loop train at Melbourne Central Station, bought my large weak café latte from the platform kiosk, and made my way up the long escalator. It was ten past nine. I was late. And I saw a group of young whipper-snappers, positioned cleverly between the escalators and the ticket barriers, ambushing hapless commuters, extracting direct debit donations. Two young women were dancing while they waited for the next rush of potential donors, having fun, being happy. I felt irritated and dodged around to the right to escape these marauding riffs. But no! A young man saw my attempted evasion and called out, 'Good morning young lady'. He was young, with a fresh, open face and a hybrid Manchester/Midlands accent. And he called me 'young lady'. He had me. And he pulled me in like a fisherman winding the reel with a stunned mullet on the end of his line. His spiel, his methods, all were as obvious as they come. The sort of thing that pisses me off just before I politely decline and back away. But not with Dave. (Oh yes. We were on first name basis within 2 seconds.) He was charming. Oh so charming. It's alarming how charming he was. I was attentive, and witty, and friendly. He laughed. He told me about his cause and I thought it was a good cause (prevention of youth suicide). Then, without breaking eye-contact, he started taking my details. Now, this is where I normally say, 'but I don't direct debit', but instead I gave my name, which he spelt correctly – clever boy; my address, which he seemed mildly impressed with; my number (of course, he won't be calling me at home); and my birthdate. Now, when I told him the year I was born, his look of surprise was subtle and most effective. Yes, that's right. I was thinking, 'he thinks I look younger than I am!' When I told him I was a musician, one of his colleagues said 'oooo' with a rising inflection indicating how impressed she was. Dave told me I would become famous. I said I didn't want fame, as I looked into his clear blue twenty-something eyes. When I said I had kids he said he couldn't wait to have kids, as he wrote my credit card details down on the direct debit form. And I gave him some sage advice on childrearing as I batted my crows'-feet-framed eyelids at him before signing here, here, here, and…..here.

And so, from August 15^th 2007, $20 will magically disapparate from my account and contribute to the coffers at Mission Australia each month for the next two years. Hopefully some desperately tortured young souls will find relief thanks to the work of Mission Australia, and choose not to take their own lives. And also the loved ones of those who do take their own lives. And I'm sure young David is pleased he successfully signed up another ongoing donor, someone who didn't tell him to fuck off. And maybe he hasn't forgotten me just yet. And maybe he did think I looked too young to have been born in 1969. And maybe he thought I looked older than that. Whatever. I'm still floating, reassured of my youthful demeanour, my witty repartee, my ability to flirt with a boy. I somehow don't care so much about my wrinkly eyes today, and I'm sure I look thinner than yesterday. Yes. Yes, I am thinner. I'm even a little sexy in an understated way. And so, I will make the most of this feeling before the air-conditioning sucks me dry, before the day gets long, before two-and-a-half years of broken sleep catch up with me. I am Blanche Dubois. It's wonderful……