Sunday, 14 February 2016

Greeting Fifty With Grace (Hotel)

Wow.  So...frigging...HOT!  Cannot believe the stupefying, stultifying, energy draining force-field of filthy oppressive heats that threatens to make me melt into a puddle.  It zaps and drains any creative current I might have had coursing through my veins, and now I don't know what to write about.

What's foremost in my mind is the beautiful weekend I have just enjoyed.  On Friday we foisted off our sprogs 'n' dogs to their grandmother.  Saturday we drove to Hornsby where we parked at my cousin's house, and caught a train to Wynyard Station.  This was something of a magical mystery tour for your blogger - not the CBD; I'm most au fait with Sydney CBD - because the final destination was to be a surprise for me.  We plodded along slowly.  I was dragging the suitcase and Mr Bingells, who has a capricious back which has just lately decided to be a fucker, was walking with crutches.  We eventually came to what looked like a several-storied art deco structure, and Mr Bingells casually remarked, 'This looks like a good place to stay,' before leading me inside.  Well, fuck me sideways if I wasn't in the foyer of the gorgeous Grace Hotel!  'Happy birthday, my darling,' said Mr Bingells.  Yeah, that's also on my mind.  Last Friday I turned fifty.  I've been blogging since the age of forty-three, so that's seven years of hopefully entertaining readers.

We were placed in a suite that almost matches the three bedrooms of our home combined in size, with a king size bed, and complimentary sparkling wine on ice.  Mr Bingells took a photograph of me luxuriating in a sumptuous white robe in the middle of the bed, a flute of bubbles in my hand.  Mr Bingells also donned a robe, but declined a selfie because he feared we'd look too much like Bob Hawke and Blanche D'Pulget in the matching robes.

For dinner, we met my eclectic circle of friends and family at the Gaslight Inn in Darlinghurst.  What a terrific bunch of friends I have.  There was a reunion of my wedding party from seventeen years ago.  There were work colleagues.  There were school friends.  We laughed at ourselves and how it didn't feel much different from the playground, and I observed all my friend needed was a Rubik's cube in her hand, and the picture would be complete.  This is true.  My friend was a gun Rubik's cube solver in the day and she could not enjoy a moment's peace in the playground because as her reputation widened, kids would be shoving cubes in her face for solving.  I don't think she ever consumed her lunchtime Vegemite sandwich in one sitting because of the constant interruption.  

Three of my friends also brought along newish partners whom I'd not yet met, and we all hit it off very well.  I feel I have made three new friends now.  What a wonderful birthday gift.

Dinner was across the road at the Balkan.  I organised for a three course set menu and for people to pay their own meals.  We had the upstairs to ourselves.  I drank wine, and ate and ate and ate (but not the dessert; it was pancakes and I really don't like pancakes).  The food was served on communal platters in the middle of the table, and guests helped themselves and shared the plates along, which all just added to the general bon homie.  The last time I had socialised with my loved cousins was my father's funeral a couple of months ago, and I can state with authority last Saturday's function was much more preferable.

People asked me about the novel for which I have recently signed a contract, and I spoke about some of the inspiration of childhood memories.  One of the funnier ones was from my former matron-of-honour, a cousin whose deb ball I attended when aged eighteen - the inspiration comes from the after-party where we swilled Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice in the bedroom at the house of a kid known as Sutto.  Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice is legendary in the circles and sacred to the memory of those who grew up in the Hunter Valley during the 1980s.  Another memory was inspired by the shenanigans I got up to with my brother and another cousin at the hotel owned by my grandmother.  My brother denied having partaken in the horseplay I spoke of, but take it from me, he was the ringleader!

When it was almost midnight, and my cousin's wife had started to sing, we realised with regret it was time to leave the restaurant. 

Because I was having guests pay their own meal, I had specified no birthday gifts.  But did people listen?  No.  Some of them did bring some token little gifts along (I would have done the same, most likely!), and my haul included a leopard print wrap, a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and a glass skull which matches the other one on my writing desk - perfect book ends.  Any haul that features animal print, expensive champagne and a skull is a worthy one.  But the most beautiful gift of all was feeling the love and friendship of that wonderful crowd of people I call my family and friends.  You cannot buy that, and you cannot fake it.  If any of you are reading this, just know I love you all.

The other thing on my mind is I am purchasing my father's motor vehicle from his estate.  We collected it yesterday and I had a bit of a drive today.  It's a manual, and I haven't driven a manual for about four years.  I did all right, too.  I'm proud of myself.  I've always preferred manuals, but like I said, my current vehicle is automatic and I was concerned I was a little out practise.  Also, my son will be going for his learner's permit next year, and of course it is best to learn to drive in a manual.  He's already had lessons with his dad out at his uncle's farm.  Mr Bingells has always liked to name our cars.  I guess this personification of motor vehicles is symptomatic of being a car nut.  However, I have been very adamant about this new Nissan.  It is to be known as The Bingmobile.  Mr Bingells is pressing for LJ, being the initials of my late father's first and second names ('Leslie John').  I have acquiesced and the vehicle will be alternately known as The Bingmoble and LJ.  Master 14 calls it The Bingmobile for the sole reason of annoying his father.

Well, I had best go.  I'm going to see if I can attach a picture of myself on the bed with the flute of bubbles.  The profile pic here is about four years old, it might be time to update. 

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