I’ve got my rhythm going. I’m gliding through the water. Feel so good. Time to turn. I twist and my legs push off the wall. Collision. I grab onto the edge and lift my foggy goggles. Adrenaline pumps. A middle aged woman dog paddles, glaring at me. I glare back. “What the hell, lady?” “I think the normal response is to apologise.” “I’ve got nothing to apologise for. Didn’t you see me coming? I was about to turn and you thought that was the best time to push off into the lane?” A muscular man slowly swims towards us. “Hey mate – maybe you just need to let it go. Take a breath.” Feeling out numbered, I refrain from replying. I take a breath. The woman turns and continues her lap. Mr. Muscles grabs onto the edge and takes off his googles. “Relax. The sun is shining.” I think this is an odd observation in an indoor pool but technically, he’s correct. The sun is shining through the ceiling’s glass panels. Once my heart rate has settled and seeing that the water witch is a safe distance away, I push off. It’s a couple of days later. I’m about to get into my Mazda when I see a couple of green waste bins on the road behind my car. I noticed them when I parked the night before and thought that where taking up a precious parking spot. I left them then but decide now to move them off the road and onto the verge. I just get the second one out of the way when an old tattooed bald dude comes striding towards me. “Hey mate – leave the bins where they were.” He starts pulling them back onto the road. “Right. So you’re happy to take up a valuable parking spot?” He glares at me. “This your car?” “Yes.” He walks to the front of it. “If pricks like you would park all the to the end of the pole…”, he points to the parking sign about half a metre away, “…then other people could park behind you rather than over my fucking driveway!” He’s full on aggro now. He yanks the last bin into place and yells, “For fuck’s sake!” I ever so briefly consider suggesting that he take a breath. But I figure he’s more likely to punch me in the head. So I just jump into the Mazda and get the hell out of there. Turns out it’s not nice being on the receiving end of grumpy man’s aggro rant.
Monthly Archives: March 2018
Snap Shot #79 – Hard Rocking Head Banging Brat
Back and forth. Back and forth. Nothing beats rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth. I can do this for hours. Back and forth. Back and forth. My little bum glued to the chair. Back and forth. Back and forth. My big people know to leave me alone. Back and forth. Back and forth. They can talk but I won’t answer. Back and forth. Back and forth. They enjoy the peace. Back and forth. Back and forth. Because sometimes… White hot anger. Bang. Blind rage. Bang. It’s so not fair! Bang. Why do they treat me like this? Bang. Don’t they know I’m the same as them? Bang. Only shorter. Bang. My head hits the wall. Bang. The floor. Bang. There’s no pain. Bang. Just exploding frustration. Bang.
Snap Shot #78 – The Bluebottle Blues
I’m running along Bondi Beach on a crowded summer Sunday. It’s over a decade before I’ll call this suburb home. This is a tourist stop for my visiting father, who’s freckled body is laying on a towel next to my girlfriend. My freckled body is enjoying a rare run, weaving around beach goers. I see two boys, brothers, using a stick to poke what looks like a blue bit of rubber about to get washed out to sea. Thinking they might be about to lose a pair of googles, I decide to help them out. I stop, bend down, pick up the blue thing, and hold it out towards them in my palm. They stare at me with a look I’ve never seen – aghast, bewildered and flummoxed, their small jaws hanging. My hand starts to tingle. I look down at the blue bit of rubber, which of course is not a blue bit of rubber. It’s a bluebottle – the local jelly fish whose tentacles unleash an especially nasty sting. Instinctively, I turn my hand over. Most of the blue bugger drops to the ground. But the rest sticks to my hand, which has graduated from a tingle to a throb. I thrust my palm into a wet patch of sand and rub. I rinse it off in a puddle. No more sticky blue bits. Still shocked by what they’re seeing, the oldest brother manages a question: “Does it hurt?” As nonchalantly as I can manage, I reply: “No”. I then calmly continue my jog, aware that the two stunned beach boys are watching the weirdo run off. What they don’t see is my face contorted in pain. My hand is on fire.