4 posts tagged “country life”

So it was just a usual day in G-town when I headed off to the supermarket in my daggy weekend clothes, unwashed hair and thongs, reading to purchase my turkish bread, coconut milk, and fetta (amongst other things). Right before entering the supermarket, I paused to grab a trolley. A trolley boy, aged about 22 with a friendly smile, pulled a trolley out of the line and handed it to me. I thanked him, and turned to wheel away, when he said to me "I'm sorry, what was your name again?". I told him that it was [Mathilde], and no we hadn't met before. He introduced himself as Matthew, and thinking nothing of it, I wheeled away to inspect the cherry toms.

After waiting an age in the checkout line, and spending more money on chocolate than a girl should (damn that tasty, spiced fairtrade goodness) I wheeled my trolley to my car, and unloaded my groceries into the boot. My car was conveniently (or so I thought) located right next to the trolley return bay. I returned the trolley in an orderly fashion, when, from clear across the cark park, I heard the aforementioned trolley boy yell 'Thanks [Mathilde]!'. Naturally, I blushed, and turned to scuttle back to my car to make my escape.

Matthew the Trolley Boy, however, had other plans. He came bounding across the supermarket carpark towards me, and asked me "I was wondering... what are you doing tomorrow? Don't worry, it's not what you think!'. I told him that I was probably going to be cleaning the house and doing some work. (I know, what a riveting life I do lead). He asked me what I did, I told him I was a lawyer, he did that fake impressed bit that most people do when you tell them you are a member of a profession which is almost universally despised. Trolley Boy then asked if I had ever been to Church. I said, 'yes actually, for about 11 years' as a result of my attending a religious school.

The following exchange then took place:

TB: "Oh, what religion? Like, Catholic?"

Me: "No, actually, Anglican."

TB: "Oh, right. I don't know what that is."

Me: "Well, more like Protestant than Catholic."

TB: "Oh right. Are Protestants enemies?"

Me: "Enemies of who?"

TB: "Like, the Catholics. Aren't they at war?"

Me: "Well, I guess they were." [Meanwhile, thinking... *where the hell is this going???*]

TB: "Yeah, cos the Protestants are the IRA."

Me: "Well the Protestants and Catholics have historically had issues in Northern Ireland, if that's what you mean."

TB: "Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, have you heard of Potter's House?"

I will interrupt this scintillating conversation to explain to you, dear reader, what Potter's House is, or at least what my completely biased understanding of it is. Potter's House is known around G-town as being a fairly strict kinda church. I have heard tales of girls being asked to leave the church because they moved in with their boyfriends of years and years, and they are apparently a fairly closed bunch. Being me, I am generally suspicious of religion in all forms, but Potter's House is one of those churches which has a bit of a mysterious "rep".

Is my homeboy

Anyway, the conversation then proceeded like so:

Me: "Um, yes I have, actually. A girl at work goes there."

TB: "No way! Who?"

Me: "Her name is ********, I think her Dad is the pastor."

TB: "Oh my God! No way! This can't be a coincidence! I, like, never come up to people and talk to them like this, but when I saw you I just KNEW that I had to talk to you, and now I know why! This is totally a miracle man, this is the Good Lord looking down on us, and he totally wanted us to meet!"

Me: "Okaaaaaaay..."

TB: "So, the Church is [provides directions]. Any chance I'll see you there at 10.30am tomorrow?"

Me: "Um, no."

TB: "Oh no! Why not?"

Me: "Well, because I'm an atheist".

At this point, Matthew the Trolley Boy appears to writhe in pain, and I internally wondered whether telling a Christian you were an atheist was like putting holy water on a vampire. Unfortunate and possibly offensive analogy, I'm sure, but that is what it kind of looked like. (It may also be that I watch too much Buffy).

Anyway, Trolley Boy follows up his inexplicable writhing with:

TB: "Oh no, don't say that! Well, I'm sure that the Lord wanted us to meet, and that this is a miracle, and because of that you are going to be seeing the Lord work in all sorts of ways today. He'll be everywhere and showing you that he exists."

Throughout this whole exchange, I had been standing at my open car door with one foot on the frame. As in, clearly indicating, please let me go and don't make me be rude by slamming the door in your face. At this point, sensing a natural ending to the conversation, I sat in my car seat and started to close the door.

Trolley Boy made his final appeal: "Well, hopefully I'll see you there! 10.30am at [address]!"

I politely smiled, shut my car door, silently begged my car to start first time for a change. Which it did. I don't know if it was the work of God or my car, but regardless I reversed out of the parking spot and sped off as quick as the law would allow me.

Now, let me be clear. I'm not anti-Christians (cue: some of my best friends are Christians), I'm not blanket anti-religion. I just resent someone attempting to recruit me in this manner. He was a nice enough chap, and I certainly didn't feel harrassed or creeped out, but really.

What I love about all this is that having a 22-ish year old trolley boy ask me to go to church in the supermarket car park is the closest thing to being picked up in G-town I've experienced yet. Typical. Juuust typical.  

We are always hearing about the doctor shortage in the bush, and I'm sure that in more remote areas that it is totally true. However, what I will say is... I was never able to call up and get a doctor's appointment for the next day in The City.

G-town one, The City zero.

Update: My joy at getting an appointment is somewhat muted now, because I didn't really like the doctor that much. There wasn't anything in particular I disliked, and I liked not being grilled about my diet and exercise as doctors are want to do (I think I had suitably impressed him by being a non-smoking only very occasional drinker - a rare thing in the country), but it was very wham, bam, thank you maam. As in he didn't say 'now I will check your heart and lungs', he just sort of lunged for my chest area, and given the size of my boobs, checking my heart and lungs involves a reasonable amount of gropage. He absolutely didn't do anything inappropriate, but you should always tell patients when you are going to touch them, and why you are going to touch them. Otherwise, what is perfectly innocent will, in the right kind of law suit happy culture, get you into trouble. Anyway, I should stop whining, because I got the shot and the prescription I needed, but still. Bedside manners count peeps.

On my way down to The City on Friday morning I got booked for speeding. The damn cop car was sitting behind a road train, or should I say hiding. I should have been more wily and remembered that they like to hide behind trucks in this area, and that others have been caught in this manner.

We've clocked you going 125

Of course, I could just not speed, but that is a lecture my mother has already delivered, and does not bear repeating.

Anyway, I wasn't too pissed off about the speeding ticket. I haven't had one in years, and they knocked my speed down by 2 kms so that I have to pay $150 instead of $200. Which was nice of them, apparently they like to give people the "benefit of the doubt". I did have to endure a lecture on why going 125kms per hour in a 110 zone is unsafe behaviour, but I didn't mind that either, because the cop finished off his sermon with "we'd like to see you round these parts again maam, but preferably not wrapped around a tree".

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I love living in the country.

So I realised over the weekend that the original point of this blog was to write about my experiences of moving from The City to a regional town. Over time, I have essentially allowed my blog to descend into insane ramblings about my shoes, techological jinxes and of course cupcakes. I'm not saying that I won't continue to blog about absolute shit, but I think I should refocus myself on my version of a social experiment... moving to the country.

One of the activities which I have engaged in since moving to G-town is going to country footy games. I have always been incredibly bored by AFL (a term which is used to describe the official league, but given the rules are the same I use it generally, perhaps to the scorn of those more knowledgeable), but I decided when I moved that I wasn't going to be able survive living in a regional town without knowing at least something about the game. Plus, all of my clients are obsessed with Aussie Rules, and it will give me something to chat with them about in tea breaks at meetings.  

About a month ago, the boy I share an office with made it up from reserves to league of his Team, so I decided to go along to his first game. They lost, but I still had a surprising amount of fun. A nightgame of country footy is something I recommend to everyone - $4 pure blondes, good chips and just lots of people sitting around shouting and honking their car horns when their team scores.

I went again on Saturday night - this time taking along my housemate and 3 of her friends from Perth. Hilariously, 3 of them wore heels. To a football game. At a grass oval. The one girl who didn't wear heels was wearing a sequinned top. The football oval has never seen anything so fancy. Anyway, despite the fact that there was a fair bit of girly conversation going on next to me, I got really into the game (which they won, woop!), and am finally starting to understand it! There isn't another night game for Team for ages though, meaning they plan on Sunday arvos instead. This makes it heaps harder to take visitors to, because by Sunday arvo they are back on the road to The City. Poo.

Anyway, I'm going to keep going to the occasional game because (1) it turns out football is kind of fun and (2) it is something to do in G-town which gives you a sense of being in a local community, which I really like. There are mums selling lemonade cans and chips, dads selling beer behind the bar, grannies with thermos's of hot tea, 8 year olds being waterboys (and mostly just drinking the water themselves) and in the breaks between quarters kids run onto the oval to have a kick themselves. You beauty.

After the football, we went to a local pub, had a few drinks and a dance to the band, who were actually pretty good. G-town does occasionally get decent acts, surprising given that there is really only one live music venue. I bailed pretty early, my excuse being that I was driving and therefore not being powered by beer. But it was fun to get out for a change and to tell my friends from The City that I actually did something on the weekend!