Wow – that’s the longest hangover I’ve ever had.
And I haven’t even had anything to drink. Elections do the darnedest things, don’t they, blog-botherers.
As I’ve already written (rather too long ago, before the muse packed its slutty leopard-print tote and took off on a Jetstar mystery flight), I had fully intended to pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening.
“Lalalalala,” and all that.
The choice between a right-wing, manipulative liar and his faceless men or a slightly less right-wing, manipulative liar and his faceless men was just too depressing, but I just could not avert my gaze.
After eye-gouge-worthy weeks of not managing to avoid being sucked into the inky vortex of the campaign in newspapers, on TV, Facebook and the radio, I’ve also not managed to avoid being flattened like a pancake by the armoured tank of its aftermath across those same soul-killing media platforms.
Standing at my local polling station handing out more-or-less non-politically aligned fact sheets wearing an unflattering orange T-shirt didn’t help in the end. Raging against the Murdoch machine felt more like a daddy long-legs stamping its feet on a grand piano.
No warm, politically correct inner glow; just sunstroke from the million-degree heat on that Saturday in Sydney. An omen, perhaps, oh dark lords of brown coal? The Coalition volunteer certainly didn’t think so, as she briskly handed out energy-giving jelly snakes to fellow volunteers (except the Greens and me, the Orange).
The hoons driving by in their souped-up Mitsubishi Smegma yelling “Bring back John Howard!” didn’t help much, either; nor did our too-handsome, chino-ed, leaflet-wielding Labor mayor, schmoozing on about the evolving demographic of our wonderful suburb.
Spaces, eh. The final f..king frontier. Houses don’t have rooms nowadays; they have spaces. Kevin McCloud, one day you will be called to account.
So too, will our neighbour, one can only hope – guileless representative of the new demographic, whose blunt-edged, mega-renovation is so relentlessly, bleakly grey and stern we call it Battleship Potemkin.
He cheerily pointed out last week that he’d “picked a winner” on Saturday. I’m assuming that means he’s already taken his three children to see the Great Barrier Reef, so he won’t be needing it any more.
Among the few things that have relieved an otherwise ill-humoured, inspiration-free fortnight (another was cleaning my shelves and skirting boards, although I’ve spared you any images of the latter) is my old and beloved friend, who told me that in his downtime from retraining to be a drug and alcohol counsellor (an admirable, if startling, transition from his former career in newspapers), he’s been watching boxed sets of The Wire… in French. He’s up to the third series, and mostly has no idea what’s going on, despite having spent years learning the language. He hadn’t bargained on the Baltimore street vernacular, apparently, although he was rather chuffed to realise that he knew the French for “Happy now, bitch?”
This bitch isn’t happy quite yet. My writer’s block has been almost as harrowing as watching Tania Pliberseck’s face slowly turning to granite on Q&A.
Except late-onset diabetes, perhaps.