None of my family do formal. I definitely don’t do formal. I grew up in the country, and even going to church there meant t-shirt and jeans. I mean, people might have given you a look if you showed up in flip flops, but they were mostly old, and we only did it on really hot days. So shoes were about as formal as we got, and only then. Mostly it was work boots for work, then wear whatever you want when you got home. Rinse and repeat.
It’s basically the same now that I’m in Melbourne, since I work for a plumbing firm and all, but now…we’re going to a work function. Yeah, awesome. Whatever. Some big event put on by the local council, the boss thinks we might get a few contracts from it, so we all have to dress up and go along and talk about under body boxes while wearing bow ties. Oh, there are gonna be bow ties. It’s fully posh and all that, so now I’m going to have to spend hours on Me-Straw looking up how to do those things up. I’m borrowing all the formal wear from my mate Dave, who laughed himself silly for a good few minutes when I told him what it was for. Probably gonna have to comb my hair as well.
Man, when I took on an apprenticeship at a plumbing firm, I didn’t know it would come to THIS. I guess everyone there will be a tradie as well, so it’s not like we have to get into weird conversations about taxes and land prices. So long as we’re talking toolboxes and utes, I’m fine. But scrubbing up just isn’t us, not at all. Our family just never learned how to do it. Maybe we just dodged a lot of weddings and funerals growing up, I don’t know…
Anyway, there are four of us going so we’ll all look stupid together. The best way of doing anything, to be honest, and we’ll have a laugh about it afterwards; maybe Shazza can give me some tips on how to do up a waistcoat. Or we could find a corner and talk about under tray draws for the entire evening.
Ellie is at it again. Whose idea was it that she start learning the saxophone, anyway? Aside from the Irish tin whistle and the bagpipes, it’s possibly the most irritating instrument to hear someone learning to play. And then there’s the violin. The squeaky, offensive violin that gives me the saddest of feelings.
Besides, while Ellie is ‘playing’ I can’t hear the neighbours, and hearing the neighbours is one of my favourite things. Now that Rufus needs picking up from school, the amount of time I can spend with my ear pressed to the wall has dropped considerably. Time was when I could merrily kick back once Ellie had toddled off down the road, cup of tea in hand, and listen through our paper-thin walls to all their problems. This morning, for instance, I heard that they’re having workmen in. Explains all the aluminium platforms, but apparently someone has been getting a bit tipsy in the evenings and playing darts. This doesn’t quite justify why their house front is covered in planks and trestles, but it does explain why they had the plaster person over. Ooh, I can’t wait to tell Rita, she’ll think this is the juiciest piece ever!
Except all those platforms are still there, and I almost managed to catch a conversation after I picked up the kids from school when Ellie started practising her saxophone. Instantly, all noise was deadened. I can’t tell her to stop, either; Lance aid it was all great for her ‘cognitive development’, and of course I want my children to grow up as clever clogs. But what about MY cognitive development?? I can’t get all the gossip with a such a noise going on!
Now I have to walk past the house several times, seeing all those aluminium work platforms and wondering what on Earth they’re for. I’d just ask, but I can’t stand the people next door. Maybe Rita and I will have to work together for this scoop. Oh, and THERE’S the saxophone again…