Saturday, 30 July 2016

Restoration of Faith in Humanity

Every now and then a little thing will restore your faith in humanity.  You find you no longer despair for the state of the world, and stop thinking it is on a one-way express trip to the very hob of Hell in a handbasket.  I had one of those little occurrences on Thursday, which at the time of typing, was two days ago. 

Thursday was a sad day. I attended a funeral.  I mentioned in a previous post the friend of a friend had died, and anyway, Thursday was the funeral.  I travelled to my home town for the sad service, along with my friend and three others.  And a sad service it was; it is heartbreaking when someone young (in this case thirty-five) dies suddenly, leaving behind a shocked and heartbroken family, as well as a fiancé.  I caught up with folk I knew at the service and wake, and despite the sad circumstances, enjoyed myself insofar as one can enjoy oneself on these occasions.  Well, anyway, I was the appointed 'dezzo', which for this uninitiated is Aussie slang for 'designated driver'.  Although an important role, it takes very little preparation and training.  All you need is a current driver's licence and a willingness to maintain your sobriety.  I ticked both those boxes.  The trip home began with a quick trip out to the cemetery so my friends could have a beer and chat with their departed loved one.  I left them to their devices, and visited the grave of my brother, mother, and father.  I'm not usually one for speaking out loud at cemeteries, as I usually communicate in my mind, but I said, 'I miss you all, especially you, Dad; it's been so recent.'  I then asked them to excuse the brevity of my visit but explained I had to look after that lot across the cemetery having their own private wake. 

Once they were bundled in, and buckled up, we set off on our journey.  This coterie was most grateful to me, and let me know with several rounds of 'hip-hip-hoorays' followed up with 'For She's A Jolly Good Fellow'.  The cheers and song were occasionally interjected with declarations that I am 'a bloody legend'.  (Guys, if you're reading this, thanks for the kind words but I'm happy to drive you all).  Beers have an effect on the head, but they also affect the bladder.  I was asked to pull over at a pub in a small town en route.  I did so, alongside the main highway, and we all went to the pub.  My charges took the scheduled toilet stop as a cue to have another beer, so a round of beers (and Diet Coke for me) was ordered, and we sat at an outdoor table.  'Simone,' said one of the guys, 'you're a great driver, but you're shit at parking!'.  I looked back at my friend's four-door ute, and had to admit my park was a bit shoddy. 

When I turned my attention away from the slightly skewiff parked vehicle (and this guy's right: I'm quite a passable driver, but don't particularly like parking), something caught my eye.  There was a sign on the wall pointing out the gate where children were to enter.  It read 'Children's Entrance'.  Yes.  It actually had an appropriately used apostrophe!  Those things are so rare, I felt like a zoologist who has just spotted a Thylacine.  Such was my joy and excitement, I almost squealed and orgasmed right there and then.  I kept staring in rapture, and swear I had to wipe away a tear of joy.  I was toying with the idea of getting out my phone and taking a photograph, and then sharing it on social media with the hope it would go viral, and restore some semblance of balance and harmony to the world.  It was a very happy me who hustled my grieving group into the vehicle, and drove back to town. 

I don't like to think of myself as a buzzkill, but I did have to put down my foot (and not on the accelerator, either) when, after I'd dropped one guy at his partner's home, one of the crew in the back asked could I call by the bottle shop for more beers.  I said I would not.  Not out of any concern for responsible service of alcohol.  No, nothing like that.  I had to get home because my youngest child turned twelve on Thursday, and I wanted to spend some time with him.  Naturally, my little lamb wanted KFC for dinner to celebrate, and naturally, the local franchise fucked up my order (what the hell happened to the second box of fries I ordered?).

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