Why is it that you mention to somebody in Melbourne that it's 28 degrees, sunny, without a trace of humidity in the air and a lovely breeze, that people tell you to...
go away (this happened)
shut up (this happened)
fuck off (this happened)
go to hell (this happened)
stick a thistle up your bum (this happened)
or just hang up the phone on you? (and yes, this happened too)
All of this has happened to me this week.
Is it because it's cold and wet and rainy in Melbourne?
Darwin in June is a marvel. The weather is almost perfect. It's not too hot. Not too wet. Nice and sunny. Cool nights, warm days. People are happy. You're not drained by the humidity. You can sleep at night.
It's good.
But I'm going home in a few hours. Back to cold Melbourne and a stroppy pussycat, who will be happy to see me after he's given me an hour or so of sass, abuse and a solid dose of the "poor me, you left me with that child, you bitch." (He's a cat, that's what they do.)
I'm a bit torn.
As much as I'm looking forward to my own bed, my friends, a long weekend and the knowledge I can walk the streets at night safely, I'm going to miss the wonder that is turning up to work in light cotton dresses and Birkenstocks. I will be wanting to go and get an ice cream in the evening because it is warm and it is what you do. I'm not going to like having to put on ugg boots and a thick dressing gown when I get up first thing in the morning.
Then I realise how lucky I am to have this job and that I get to live two lives.
Tonight is my last full night in Darwin. I'll be arriving back in Melbourne very early Saturday morning.
I hope my cat is still alive.
I'm looking forward to the cool. I find it strange that the air conditioning in this one-bedroom flat is set to the same temperature that I have my heating on at home (22 degrees). As it's now the dry, I'm finding it's not as necessary to have the air con on full blast. There's even a very thin doona on the bed, which also fills me with joy, but it's not the thicker one I have at home.
Tonight is odd jobs night.
I had dinner with a colleague down at the hotel restaurant. The barramundi is good here.
I've done my ironing, after doing the washing last night. And yes, I even iron when I'm up here in Darwin.
I'm half-packed
And now I want to go to bed.
The week has been good. I've kept the pact with myself and managed to do more than 10,000 steps a day - which the warmer weather makes easy. A loop around the waterfront each night has been great. No swimming this trip, but that is okay. Finally, the hotel pool looks like it will be ready to swim in in the next few weeks.
But it's been a big week, and a tiring week, so I think I will leave this for tonight.
The nasty Uber driver man made me feed my ice cream to the crocodiles.
We had had a lovely night down on Stokes Hill Wharf, where a number of small restaurants are housed at the end of the pier. We'd been told that the tacos were really good at this hole in the wall Mexican place - and they were good. One colleague had chicken tostadas, which they loved. The other had a bowl of loaded fries that could have fed four. Me, I tried the pork and fish tacos, which were very tasty (But I think I preferred the fish tacos I had at the other Mexican place on the waterfront - but they were still good.)
A nice cheap and cheerful dinner.
We'd ambled down there after work. It's always good to get a decent walk, even better when you have a bit of company.
After dinner, we found an ice cream place. I was happy. Hokey Pokey ice cream and Macadamia ice cream are two of my favourites. Rather than selecting one, I paid the exorbitant price of $12 for a double scoop. And it was worth it. (One of my colleagues got the same mix in a cup).
We wandered slowly back down the pier, talking about how we were getting home. I was up for a walk. I had an ice cream to walk off - and Darwin is not somewhere you walk alone at night. My colleagues wanted to Uber home. I was outnumbered.
The Uber was ordered.
I continued to enjoy my cone.
The Uber turned up. A very nice Haval car. Large and comfortable.
We made our way to the car. I still had the cone left.
"No eating in the car!" came a booming voice from behind the wheel.
Dammit.
I am one for not disobeying Uber drivers. I have a very respectable 4.83 Uber score - I'd like to keep it.
And yes, it's his car, his rules, and I was not up for a fight. (He was a very nice Uber driver, all things considered)
But what was I to do? Stay behind and get another Uber for myself? Scoff down the rest of the cone and give myself a cold headache? Race to the nearest bin, which was a good 100 metres away?
In the end, it was simple. Being foodstuffs, with no plastic or wrappings, there was one solution. The cone and the last of the ice cream was thrown off the pier into the water.
It felt horrible.
I gave up my ice cream to go with the flow.
It was so unfair.
Macadamia ice cream is one of life's joys. It shouldn't be fed to the fishes and the crocs.
I got home and had a compensatory gin and tonic to soothe my weary soul.
It is, however, lovely being in Darwin, where it's warm enough to have an ice cream after dinner. With the breeze, and the light and sunset, and tacos and ice cream, life is not bad at all.
There is something to say of business trips to Darwin, where there is music, and beer, and easy company.
Being away from home brings the opportunity to do different things, particularly as the weather is warm and dry and life appears to be pretty good.
My evening started after work, when I donned my exercise gear and a pair of runners and did a lap of the Darwin Waterfront, fulfilling my need for some exercise. I've made a pact with myself to do at least an hour's exercise or 10,000 steps a day. It's nearly midnight and my watch says I've done nearly 14000 steps, so this requirement is fulfilled.
On the way back to the hotel, I grabbed some dinner - a Subway wrap. A healthy version with grilled chicken and lots of vegetables. Cheap and easy dinner.
Then it was a quick visit to the Smith Street gym to see what sort of FIFO packages they have going. I was quite pleased as I miss the gym while I'm up here and there's a decent package that runs over six weeks which will fit the bill. Just being able to go to a gym while I'm up here would be great.
Then home. Eat the Subway wrap. Have a quick shower. Dress. Then head out to a dodgy bar down Mitchell Street for some live music with a colleague. We were joined by his boss and the big boss.
Beer is a great leveler.
It's difficult to get drunk on beer.
And in the warmth of a Darwin night, just sitting in a dodgy bar, drinking beer, not talking about work was great.
There were no plans, other than to see whoever was on at The Tap.
And that was the night.
Coming home, we watched as some happy, tiddly backpackers drive a couple of girls along a shopping trolley along the footpath.
"Youth is wasted on the young," my colleague reminded me.
"But in our youth we wouldn't have had such a fun, mellow night."
It's the second doctor's appointment I've had in about six weeks about this.
HRT patches, at the moment, in Australia, are in short supply, which means many middle-aged women who are managing menopausal symptoms are scurrying to find their medication, if, they can find them at all.
I went to see the shopping centre doctor because I'd managed to track down another brand of patch, but even though it's the same strength, same chemical compound, same way of using the patch, I had to get another prescription. No such thing as a generic oestrogen patch it appears.
That was $60 out of the holiday budget I won't see back.
Being told in the weeks before that these patches are in short supply, I started looking for my next round of patches early, because the thought of being hot, sweaty, grumpy, leaky, dry, sleepless, exhausted and partly psychotic doesn't really interest me, and knowing that you can't get your patches means you can make choices.
So, I had a telehealth appointment with my doctor today, to look at the options.
It's a daily pill, or a gel.
"How can they let patch production dwindle to a point where we're running out? What are the TGA, or whoever controls when these things come in and out thinking about letting these crucial strips of plastic, which you plaster to your body twice a week be not available.
Oestrogen is a life force for many of us.
It provides more than just a comfortable body temperature.
It helps regulate your moods.
It stops your pelvic floor from dropping out from between your legs.
It keeps your skin feeling a bit more pliable.
It allows you to have sex comfortably for all concerned, especially keeping your vagina from tearing or feeling like a sandpaper encrusted vice.
It helps you keep the psychos at bay - whatever your flavour of psychosis may be.
And yes, you can tell me that this is all a part of life.
But if menopause was happening to a man, we would have had a lot more solutions, which would not go into shortage at regular intervals. I mean, when was the last time you heard about a Viagra shortage?
Talking to my lovely doctor, she recommended a gel, still topical, but not the set and forget of the patch, more a daily application to the upper arms and thighs once a day. A bit messy, but at least the oestrogen will get in. And it's available.
Of course, the messy option is readily available.
There is also a tablet form, but that could play with my blood pressure, so we're not going that route.
It galls me that this crucial, non-PBS medication, which makes life worth living for so many women, is allowed to sell out.
It's fucked.
/<rant>
On the other side of things, as I was signing off from the phone call with the doctor, sitting in the tea room, at work, looking out over the Darwin duck pond, she raised the other point.
"So, when are we going to talk about you getting that ADHD/austism diagnosis. You don't know what can help if you don't know."
"When I get more than a few weeks back in Melbourne and I've saved up the $1000 it costs to get yourself assessed."
"Not yet." (My doctor and I talk about what's on Netflix - we have very similar taste in streaming telly.)
"Well, if you watch in, when you see Harriet Manners, know that her thought processes mirror mine. It's a hard relate. Just without the modelling and maybe a little more self-awareness."
"Okay."
"Hey, I'm neurodiverse. So, I don't quite know what flavour that is. I like the wine. I maybe don't need the label."
I'm nearly ready to head to the airport to go back to Darwin. I've got nearly everything ready for Liam, my house sitter.
I've known Liam since he was two-days old. He's now 18.
Yes, I'm letting an 18-year-old look after my flat and cat for a week.
He's a good lad. Quiet. Responsible. At university, but on a break, so he reckons he'll make the most of having a television to himself for the week, while feeding my ratbag cat.
I've done everything a good host should do. I've cleaned the toilet and bathroom. The kitchen is in order. I've made the bed with fresh linen, and there are clean towels for the bathroom sitting on the bed. My vibrator has been hidden away out of sight. I've even done a bit of dusting.
And of course, I asked if I could get any food in, after all, he's used to living with his Mum and Dad and I'm pretty sure they keep him fed. He also got told that he was welcome to anything he found in the cupboard or fridge - with the exception of the bottle of French Champagne - if that gets drunk, that needs to be replaced.
It seems 18-year-old boys have very simple needs.
He asked for a loaf of light rye bread (because when he came over he noticed my KMart special sandwich press) That and six litres of lite milk.
SIX LITRES OF MILK!
What the?
Sorry, I buy one to two litres of almond milk a week. I don't really drink milk, haven't done for years - I run better on limited dairy.
But SIX LITRES?!
I've never had a teenage boy of my own, but many of my friends possess one of two of them. They seem to improve with age. Liam is definitely out of the grunty stage and is well on his way to being a fully formed human being.
But SIX LITRES OF MILK!
What's he going to do? Bathe in it? Is this normal?
It's Saturday night and I'm getting ready to go to Darwin once again. So, as is the tradition, I'm going to do a job and do a question to get both things out of the way. I have my house sitter coming just before I go to the airport tomorrow night.
1. If you like art, who is your favourite artist and why?
Yes, I love art - I seek out art. I go to art galleries as a regular occurrence. I love that art makes you feel things, though this is not all art.
As for my favourite artists, I have many, but the one that comes to mind tonight is Francis Bacon. I love the sensitivity and brutality of his paintings. Irish, gay, an alcoholic, an iconoclast, his paintings speak to me. I hunt him out in major galleries.
Job: The dishes.
2. If you were able to learn any three skills or talents instantly and with success, what would they be?
I would love to be able to play the piano - I should look into lessons.
I'd love to be able to sing better - I can carry a tune, just not that well.
And I wish I had neat handwriting. I have a doctor's or serial killer's handwriting. It would be good to have better penmanship.
Job: Scrub down the stovetop.
3. If you were to live in Ancient Times, where - in what country - would you want to live in?
What do you describe as ancient. I don't think I'd like to live anywhere before the 1500s - even then, it's pretty hairy. At least in the times of say the Tudor court people are somewhat literate.
Then again, ancient Rome had running water... but then they had Caligula. No thanks.
Job: Put the dishes away.
4. What is something you’re embarrassed to admit to liking? Whether it be a guilty pleasure show, or unusual hobby, etc.
Phil Collins. The Channel Nine News (the only way I get in half palatable right wing news). Beans on toast - best quick dinner ever.
Job: Torment the cat - he was tormented enough, he went from his spot on the bed to his spot on the cushion on the couch.
5. What is the worst job you’ve ever had?
That would probably be my first proper job. I've had a lot of dodgy jobs, but spending eight hours a day putting price tags on things at a department store at the end of university was not a great thing.
Job: Set up the ironing board.
6. What is something that you wanted to do as a child that you would still like to do now?
Learn how to play the piano. I'm quite musical. I used to play the flute. I'd like to think I'd get the hang of it pretty quickly.
Job: Plug in the iron.
7. What do you hate being judged for more than anything else?
My size and weight. I've had this all my life. Unfortunately, it's the one thing I wish I didn't judge myself for - years of being judged as a child has made it's mark.
Job: Pack underwear for Darwin.
8. What is your life’s mission?
To be happy. It's as simple as that and it is a mission every day.
Job: Iron one item of clothing.
9. If everyone walked around wearing warning labels, what would yours say?
"Mad, bad and dangerous to know." That is what I was once told I was.
I think now I'd probably have something like "Sensitive and would like to stay that way." It reads better than, "Gently neurodiverse. Intermittent filter settings. "
Job: Iron something else.
10. At what age did you first feel like you were an adult?
About 27. I'd been living in London on my own for a few years and had to make some pretty big decision. It was then that I knew I could do this adulting lark.
Job: Pack cereal for Darwin (so I have something for breakfast ready on Monday morning.)
11. When did you not speak up, but wish you had?
I tend not to make mention of conflicts on my socials - whether that be Palestine or Ukraine or wherever these awful atrocities take place. I don't feel like it's my place to speak out, though many would disagree. I know that the standard you walk past is the standard you accept, but there are some things I'd rather talk about in private.
Job: Get clothes ready for tomorrow.
12. What is something that makes your skin crawl?
People who are rude to service staff. And men who wear clothes that got left in the washing machine for too long, then dried them and they smell musty. Ick.
Job: Put away the clothes horse.
13. What was the last thing to give you butterflies in your stomach?
Oh, I can't remember. Maybe walking into the first session of the Faber Academy at the offices of Allen and Unwin. That was a strange feeling.
Job: Iron another piece of clothing.
14. What's your favorite type of media to work with? (Paint, clay, pens etc.)
They keyboard. I'm a writer - though I enjoy painting even though I'm not good at it.
Job: Iron another piece of clothing.
15. What question do you hate answering?
Tell me about your family / love life. I prefer to keep this one mostly under wraps.
