One of the grandparent constellation had taken to writing letters. I wrote one back. It actually wasn't that bad. Optimistic, full of positive affirmation. The reaction was as if I called them a pedophilic closet neo-nazi. I, um, a bit stunned. I now wait to see whether we are estranged.
We went to see my parents in Bundaberg. It was ok. My mum was hit by someone backing up with a trailer. More generally my impression was that lots of Queenslanders are familiar with trailers. I suspect most were conceived in them (with apologies to the likes of Quiggin and Bahnisch, who clearly don't have 'the gene'). The Bruce Highway, a single lane strip used for drag racing by pig-bothering types in large trucks, is testament to governmental retardation and ineptitude.
My mum barely survived breast cancer and is struggling with several other significant impairments, but clearly she can be run over and expect no support at all from anyone relevant. Police dormant, insurers- well, that's where it gets fun, apparently in Queensland you have to chase people with lawyers to get your hospital bills paid. We'll see, it's early days, but don't these people know how to write a piece of legislation to bring their motor vehicle regime up past the 19th century?
The kids were cute with my folks and this clearly warmed their hearts a bit, even my dad, astonishingly (and to a limited level). The old 3 day rule kicked in on the 4th evening when he made a comment along the lines of 'if only we'd sent you to elocution lessons you might be a QC now'. Firstly, I don't think I brag that much here, but I'm pretty much an ace at public speaking. Secondly, he'd dishonestly given me the impression he accepted my interest in policy as genuine, when in fact he was still whistfully sitting around admiring men in wigs and wishing he could show off a picture of me in court, using my brilliant elocution to, I don't know, do what lawyers do.
Fuck over some old person who'd been run over, perhaps? Good onya dad, thanks for showing that we've made so little progress, you and me, over the last 20 years since you first commenced putting down everything I do.
And this after I wrote a letter and got their dispute with Centrelink wrapped up in less than 48 hours.
Oh and there was the comment that the way we feed Mitts would technically constitute rape in many jurisdictions.
...ngngngng MOVING on...
Noosa, is where we moved on to. Mitts got the sand, and the tips of the waves, between his tiny toes. Bear chuckled and laughed and splashed and kicked her feet as I carried her across the surface of the pool and through the waves and was a little bundle of blonde-bouffed joy. We shamelessly threw the rules out and sat by Hastings Street, all 3 members of the family who no longer eat boob, scoffing rich multi-flavoured iced creams and slurping vanilla milkshakes.
On we drove, and with friends in Brissie we relaxed again, meeting their beautiful new daughter and admiring the airy Queenslander (house, not local resident) with its lush, green backyard.
The welcome home was almost overwhelming and Mao is rubbing himself against me every few minutes. Here dad, here's my scent, don't going running off with any other cats!
Mitts was hitting the wall, badly, but he still erupted with joy when he lay down on his familiar sheepskin. Again when he spotted the smiling wooden clown hanging above his cot. What a homebody!