I was checking in for my flight from
Port Macquarie to Melbourne. The kind lady tagging my luggage assumed
that I would happily declare anything illegal or dangerous I was
smuggling. I was two hours early for the flight and panting like
being the first to check in was a life or death proposition for me.
The laughter that followed her greeting illustrated she had just
realised that my ridiculous snoozing at the gate story was actually
true. Surely that had little bearing on following flights, so I can
only assume that it was added to my details for the amusement of all
future cabin crew. Instead of being offended, I then proved how
necessary such a precaution was when I went and waited for my
departing flight in the arrival hall. Before long I realised my folly
and was finally able to experience a bizarre sort of life confirming
experience just by boarding a plane on time with no additional costs.
A stopover in Melbourne was necessary
to help my Nana celebrate reaching her 90th year as the
backbone of the local chapter of Legacy and the CWA, the scourge of
garden weeds, and the saviour of my deeper descents into destitution.
I wasn't expecting it to be celebrated in the same manner as what
Adam and Kiara's engagement was, but it was a fine demonstration of
how important alcohol is as a social lubricant when it comes to
family outings.
The ongoing celebratory mood of my life
was tempered somewhat by the departure of my closest companion for
the last 18 months. Laura had been witness to, and the voice of
reason through some of my more insane moments. Giving Laura a bottle
of tequila completely reversed those roles one night in Broome
though. Returning home to Ireland to do a Ph.D. in Marine Ecology
meant that Laura had finally succeeded in getting her life organised,
something she found increasingly difficult the more time she spent
around me. We shared a beautiful afternoon at the Rhododendron
gardens in Olinda with a bottle of sparkling shiraz and 3 years of
long distance friendship to account for. I still miss her terribly
one month on so its going to be a long 3 years.
I returned to Hobart knowing that Laura
would no longer be there. In addition to this, a phone call a few
days earlier had warned me that all aspects of my life would be
different on my return. A higher authority at Squires, one that
believes his importance rivals that of another omniscient being with
a penchant for smiting, had deemed that Trev wasn't the sycophant
that he had originally hoped for. With too much flair and creativity
to just go along with everything less open minded people demanded,
Trev's year long contract was unceremoniously cancelled for official
reasons too lame to bother retelling here. It seems that protecting
every penny is more important than the long term profitability of the
establishment, and the vibe in the place has been changed for the
worse.
Had I not just blown every cent I owned
on a month of leisure time, my sense of outrage would have forbid me
from returning there. Destitution limits ones options and abilities
to live in accordance with ones seemingly flexible and ever-changing
sense of morality. So I sold my soul to the devil and returned, if
only to attempt world records at amounts of liquor consumed while
working on the supposedly sober side of a bar. Thanks to the
installation of more surveillance cameras, getting away with such
unprofitable past times is harder to sneak past the all-seeing eyes
of Ebenezer Scrooge.
Trev has since relocated to the
beautiful Freycinet lodge in a national park of the same name. His
role of restaurant manager retains the responsibilities he had in
Hobart, minus the need to moderate my manic behaviour. Abbie is soon
to follow him, taking a role in a near by restaurant, cutting short
the lease on the house we shared. Any thoughts I had of extending my
stay in Hobart are hampered by the additional burden of finding
somewhere else to live. As all vestiges of heat slowly yield to the
southerly climate, the fondness of my Cable beach recollections are
intensifying to be the most significant experiences I have ever had.
Each gust of cold wind increases my desire to return to a place where
modesty is the only dictate of dress code. As much as I would love to
wring every last drop of fun out of Hobart, it may be time to leave
on a high and be satisfied that my opinion of the state has
completely turned around in the four months that I lived here.
