Every now and then, you will be called to step up to the plate. A rookie footballer who has spent most of the season sitting on the bench playing with his iPhone will find himself taking to the field because the whatever-the-position-for-relevant-code-is-but-I-don't-know-and-don't-care has come down with a pulled hamstring. The understudy who has been doing the chorus for the season will find herself warbling in place of the lead actress after said lead actress has come down with laryngitis. Yesterday, I found myself filling in on a panel type setting at the Scone Literary Long Weekend. I had attended some events on the Saturday, and one of the committee asked could I fill in after a planned participant had had to pull out. Seeing an ideal opportunity to enjoy my time in the spotlight, and spruik some work, I immediately agreed.
Afterwards, I remembered I had not planned to go anywhere on Saturday. Mr Bingells was going to take Master 14 for some one-on-one father/son bonding, maybe a fishing trip to Hexham (they wound up going ten pin bowling). So I told Master 11 he would be travelling to Scone with me, and he could bring his iPad, but to at least not be playing when Mum was speaking. I rarely take my kids with me on these promotional type of occasions, but it won't hurt them to be supportive of their parents for a change. It kind of took me back to the times I would be carted along to whatever rodeo at which my father would be involved. After he stopped competing, my father would often be called upon to judge events. So I, along with my three older siblings, would be bundled into the ubiquitous family vehicle of the 70s - the station wagon - and take the lengthy journey to wherever the venue was situated. The reason the journey was lengthy is because my father drives waaaaaay below the speed limit. My nearest-to-me brother would be griping that the straw in his woven cowboy-style hat was making his head itch. The others would be squabbling over the Sony tape recorder which would be blaring 'See My Baby Jive' or 'Skydiver'. The day would be spent in stinking heat, and I remember climbing the railing of the show ring, and sitting on the top horizontal rail and watching my father do his thing. When my father is astride a horse, this weird thing happens: man and beast blend, and he appears to be some kind of a mutant centaur. My father is most at home on a horse. When I was tired of watching, I would wander off and find some kids my own age, and we would play. The air would be redolent with the pong of horse dung - fresh and steaming and organic. This pong would marry with greasy Dagwood dogs (to this day I loathe deep fried batter) and sickly sweet fairy floss (even as a rather gluttonous kid, I did not eat the stuff and still don't like it). Well, after playing for a while, the kids would go to watch the cattle rides. Everyone enjoyed the cattle rides and the buck jumping. At the end of the day we would be tired and cranky, and I would be covered in dirt, and we would be bundled into the station wagon and driven home. Sometimes I'd sprawl in the back of the station wagon, but I do remember having to share one journey in that little haven with a big lanolin-stinking sheep, whose fleece was matted with burrs and dried dags, and whose yellow eyes regarded me balefully the entire journey.
So, yeah, the idea of taking MY child along to MY thing brought back those strangely sweet memories. The two of us took a selfie outside the venue. My 11yo is a selfie-freak, a product of his era. When we arrived one of the featured authors was finishing her allotted talk, and when it was over I led him to the front row, and asked him to at least not have his headphones on when Mum was doing her bit. He did not. In fact he kept his iPad off and paid attention to EVERYBODY, and I was very proud. He told me afterwards he enjoyed my talk about my work, as well as my reading. I held up copies of my books, and spoke about my inspiration to write them. With the first I spoke about how as a creative writing student, I had taken part in an exercise to list things we couldn't stand, and then build a story from them. My list included chiefly people standing on the wrong side of escalators (there were sympathetic murmurs in the audience at this), and current affairs type television. I spoke about having to reassure a client back in the days I was law clerking - this client having to appear at Burwood Local Court for a brief mention - and where there was a barrage of television cameras. I had told him they were entitled to report the news and there was nothing he could do. I outlined his choices: sneak out the back; or put on his sunglasses and walk past, head held high. Anyway, a few minutes later I got a telephone call, which went - and I imitated the client's whining as I relayed the story - 'Simone, I think I broke a television camera!' I had replied, 'Mate, I'm not sure what I can do about that. Just keep walking.' But television cameras in people's faces also got me thinking, and it all ended up being an ingredient in my first ever novel. I spoke of my desire to create the anti-Muriel Heslop, having hated the moronic pissant when I saw 'Muriel's Wedding' (and I turned to the feminist author on the panel and said, 'You'd like my character!'). My talk also encompassed censorship, and the rights of people to listen to or view art produced by people who might not be of exemplary character. I then read from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', and the moderator, familiar with my work, dinged the bell before I got to the bit about the protagonist hoping for a 'soapy or shampooey hand job' from his wife in the shower! Throughout it all, Master 11 was an angel. I was ever so proud of him. On the drive home, he told me he had genuinely enjoyed the session.
Today, I attended again and took part in some readings. And I got a book sold. It's all been worth it.
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