I Started Smoking Again

I started smoking, after work. Oh, you know, work, those cunts are enough to drive anyone back to the old tobacci, as they say. Maybe, I should get a new job rather than a new packet of smokes.

My addiction councillor, Jackie, says it might help to record my fails at quitting, so I can look back and use it somehow to stop smoking completely. 

I'm not really sure how that works, but assume more information will help somehow. I guess it’s gotto. Hey?

Jackie is pretty fierce. She has a take-no-prisoners attitude to addiction and her clients. 

Keep trying to stop! Never stop trying to stop, is the motto.

I say nervously, fingering my cigarette packet. I like it all. The smell. The taste. The feeling. Just holding it in my hand, I think. I like all of that. The packet. The lighter. Putting it to my lips. The action of the lighter. How I hold my head as the tip turns red. Inhaling, that lovely feeling. The smoke rising up off it, and swirling about my head. Inhaling the aroma. I like it all. 

The smoke swirling in the rays of the afternoon sun, when I sit out the back on my wicker chairs in the garden. I have taken photos of that, I have to admit. The beauty of that white smoke swirling in the rays making them visible to the eye.

I guess I am supposed to call the group and admit my failings?

That’s how it works, in Group Think, Jackie’s Quit Smoking Group. She guarantees success, one of the reasons I signed up, a guarantee, or your money back. That has to count for something.

Jackie is a treat with her green hair and her thick black rimmed glasses. She swears and drinks like a fish, which I really want to point out to her is, surely, against her ethos. The drinking. But I guess it is more do as I say, not as I do, that’s how the world works anyway, isn’t it.

When she calls me, she is always yelling into the phone. “James, James, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“James, James, speak up I can’t here you, the reception is bad here.”

“Yes, Jackie, it’s me.”

“James?”

“Yes.”

“James Matterhorn?”

“Yes, Jackie, it’s James Matterhorn here.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad I’ve got you James. I wasn’t sure I had the right number.”

“You have the right number,” I yell into the phone.

“Okay, okay, no need to yell, I’m on the same fucken planet as you James.”

“I thought it was the reception?”

“It’s not that bad, keep your pants on.”

“Okay.”

“We have a meeting of Group Think next Friday.”

“Is that the Friday coming up? Or is that the next one?”

“It’s the next one.”

“So, Friday week?”

“No James, next Friday. Are you listening?”

“Yes, Jackie I’m listening.”

“Friday 31st?”

“Um, er, ah, let me just find my phone. Now where did I put my phone?”

“The one you are talking into?”

“Oh yes. Ha ha. Goodness me. Now just a minute, where is my calendar.”

The call drops out.

The phone rings.

“It is next Friday the 31st, James, did you get that?”

“Yes Jackie, next Friday.’

“Yes, next Friday, isn’t that what I said?”

“Yes, Jackie it was what you said.”

“Well, I am fucken glad we have that sorted out. James. I’m talking to James, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Jackie, James here.”

“Just with all this ringing around, sometimes I’m not always sure.”

“No, I got it Jackie.”

“Abe won’t be coming, he’s dead.”

“What?”

“Yes, dead. Heart attack, from all accounts, on a table in a Greek restaurant smashing plates.”

“OMG! That’s terrible. Poor Abe.”

“Yes, indeed, went down like a bag of shit, from all accounts, dead before he hit the floor. Poor Abe.”

"Poor Abe."

“Anyway, everyone else with be there, Even Hatchet Betty, she’s out of hospital, the wounds have healed and the charges have been dismissed, so that’s good news.”

“Really? Is it?”

“Good news for Betty.”

“But what about the rest of us?”

“She’s just misunderstood.”

“I thought the problem was medical.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, James.”

“I thought the problem was that she stopped taking her anti-psychotic medicine.”

“Yes, well, she’s back on them now, James, and as gentle as a lamb.”

“Good to here.”

“So, can you bring a plate?”

“To Group Think?”

“Yes James.

“Next Friday?”

“James, I am pretty sure we have been over this.”

“I’m just wanting to be clear, Jackie.”

“Good habit to get into, James, don’t get me wrong.”

“Yes, Jackie.”

“Remember, just good habits, James.”

“Yes, just good habits.”

“Lovely. Next Friday then.”

"Yes."

I went and emptied the ashtray, as soon as I hung up the phone. I got a chill up my spine as I did. It was my shame. I didn’t tell Jackie. I’m not really sure why? Guilt. A sense of failure? Ego? I don’t know? All I knew is that I had until next Friday to stop smoking again. Could I go to a meeting while I was smoking? No. No, I couldn’t do that. Out of the question. 

I had a week to stop again.

Good Morning, Sunshine

I walked out onto my balcony to see what sort of day it was, hot or cold? It’s been warm, followed by cold, stormy and wet.

It’s been raining all morning. It is cool but muggy. Lovely.

No, I think Melbourne’s changeable weather is way over exaggerated.

Now, I had only just cracked open the coffin lid, as I stepped out onto my Juliet balcony, over looking my street, the day, the world.

That was as I stepped outside into the morning to discover it was a lovely day, 25, or so, and sunny, with a breeze. And with that, I was quite pleased.

It was early, 9.30am. Lovely.

What to do for the day? What indeed.

I made a promise to be more, to all of my friends. But life got in the way, as life has a habit of doing. We all haven't talked in so long, you know together, around the same table so to speak, but it doesn’t seem to matter, it’s as though no time has passed when we do get together. That’s what friends are.

I feel like we are always working now a days, it seems to be a given, a sign of being productive. I found a local news article that describes ways we can fill our lives with work rather than love. It's easier than it sounds, ha, ha. But then, we all look like we have already found the secret.

Work to live, that’s my motto, it was Australia’s motto once. Not live to work. We need to rediscover the dinner table laden with food and wine, surrounded by friends and long evenings to consume all of it. Forget the board table Australia and go home to your loved ones. The corporate world eats it’s young and leaves the carcass bleeding in its wake, don’t forget that.

I see the young kid from down the road jog passed in those little black shorts and that kind of uncoordinated way he has a jogging. He has a particular look on his face, when he jogs, kind of expressionless mannequin crossed with disappointment. I don’t know how old he is? I remember seeing him in his dark blue school uniform, but that was probably a few years ago now. It’s funny how we all jog in our 20s when we don’t need to and then we all sit on the couch in our 40s when we do need to jog. It has something to do with sex, 20 year olds get lots of sex, 40 year-olds not so much.

He’s probably 20 now and going to uni now. 2nd year. Isn’t that what they all do? Kids from trendy middle class families. Go to uni. I look down and spot a nearly unsmoked joint in the ashtray on my balcony wicker table. I slide it into my mouth and light it. I couldn’t quite remember when I left it there. I went to uni, of course, but that doesn’t lessen my argument, about modern youth. The joint is a good vintage, I inhale deeply and exhale up into the sky. The jogging kid, I guess, would have a uni girl friend who he’d study with. Eat lunch. Travel to campus with by public transport. I hoped he’d have a uni boyfriend too. One of each. Really enjoy his uni days. Attend protests. Arm around a girl. Arm around a boy. Get shit faced. I didn’t do any of that at uni. I just studied and felt miserable just about every day I went. I had no one with whom to get shit-faced.

I sat down on one of the wicker chairs. The sun was nice. I was thinking about what I’d do today, but now I didn’t care. I puffed some more on the joint. I blew the smoke into the air high above my head.

The sky was blue.

“Come on Nat, we haven’t got much time to get to the concert,” says Lachlan. “And I’ve heard Atomic Waste goes on right on time.”

“Oh Lachie, no band goes on on time, they just don’t.”

“They do, apparently Spiro the lead singer has OCD bad and he has to.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

“Nat, this is Ashleigh, he’s coming to the concert too.”

“Hi Ashleigh,” says Nat.

“Nice to meet you,” says Ashleigh.

“So, how do you two guys know each other?” asks Nat.

“We do the same European History tute,” says Lachlan.

“You studying Arts too, Ashleigh.”

“Arts/Law,” says Ashleigh.

“Does the Arts degree soften the Law?”

“Something like that,” says Ashleigh.

“So, you can explain the ethics of what you do to your clients…”

“Something like that.”

“Or, so you can justify draining the folks of their life savings when you draw up the legal papers.”

“I was hoping to work in public law after I graduate.”

“Is that because you don’t have the stomach for corporate world.”

“Hey Nat, you are being a bit aggressive,” says Lachlan.

“No, it’s okay,” says Ashleigh. “I’ve got choices to justify, if only to myself.”

“Oh, am I? Sorry,” says Nat.

“Don’t be,” says Ashleigh. “It’s good, I like robust discussions.”

“You know my parents are going through a messy divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Ashleigh.

“Yeah, me too,” says Nat.

“I bought us a couple of joints for the walk to Rod Laver,” says Lachlan. “Let’s smoke them as we walk through the park.”

“Get them out,” says Nat.

“The joints?” questions Lachlan.

Ashleigh laughs.

“You guys,” says Nat.

Lachlan puts both joints in his mouth and lights them.

"Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon. We have the stars," says Nat.

Lachlan hands each of them a joint.

“Now Voyager,” says Ashleigh.

Lachlan exhales a huge cloud of smoke. “Nat is an old movie buff.”

“I study drama…” says Ashleigh.

“You study drama?” questions Nat.

“It’s my one indulgence,” says Ashleigh. “My one frivolity.”

“Frivolity,” asks Lachlan.

Nat hands her joint to Ashleigh. Ashleigh hands his joint to Lachlan.

“We just watched Now Voyager, my lecturer is a Bette Davis nut,” says Ashleigh.

“Is she the old chick with all the white makeup who fed the budgie to her sister?” asks Lachlan.

“Yes, Baby Jane,” says Nat.

Lachlan hands his joint to Nat. Ashleigh hands his joint to Lachlan.

“I’m not really into old movies,” says Lachlan.

“I find them interesting,” says Ashleigh. “It’s another world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Exactly,” says Nat. “Great analogy.”

Nat and Lachlan hand both their joints to Ashleigh.

“Wow, hang on, are you guys trying to get me shit faced,” says Ashleigh.

“You catch on quick,” says Lachlan.

“I’d be into it,” says Nat. She smiles at Lachlan. Lachlan can’t help but smile as he looks from Nat to Ashleigh.

Ashleigh hands one of the joints to Nat.

The crowds started forming as they approach the stadium.

“Come on, lets go,” says Lachlan. He grabs Nat’s hand and Ashleigh’s hand and he runs them down the hill to the people milling around the entrance.

Nat and Ash take awkward last puffs on the joints and then throw them almost in unison onto the grass as they run past.

I chuckled a warm, nostalgic, chuckle to myself as I put the split out in the ashtray.

I was already imagining what Lachie, Nat and Ash got up to when they got home to Lachlan's place after the concert.

The Question

Finn asked Chris if he had been unfaithful. Finn just came out with it, in the kitchen as they made coffee.

Chris left the crab ointment on the bathroom bench and Finn had noticed it when he used the bathroom. Finn had had a shower, we’re not using soft language for Finn taking a dump.

Finn could see Chris was taken back, because he was.

“Finn?...” Chris’ eyes glassed over, as if they had already decided. “I never... no.” 

For the last year, since Angelo gave crabs to Chris, just occasionally Chris has felt something crawling on his skin. It had a really high ‘ick’ factor for him. In those moments, he puts the ointment on, for peace of mind, more so than anything else. He changes his sheets, washes his clothes and then he feels everything is fine. 

I don’t even really feel them, as such, Chris has said. It’s just a feeling, a passing shiver up my spine, I get sometimes.

Angelo still lives up the street. He's just finishing uni. But Chris hasn't, you know, not since he met Finn. Well, maybe that one time right at the beginning, but Chris counted it as before Finn, when he got the damn crabs.

“I know. I just wondered,” said Finn. He was quiet after that.

Chris suppressed the urge to confess. Brain kicked in. It was one of those red stop-light moments. Don't say anything. Count to ten. Do not question. Don't pull a face. Keep your mouth shut.

“I have only been with you,” said Chris. And that was true. He’d been with Angelo moments before he met Finn, but that still counted as before. Chris thinks he was still dealing with the crabs when he and Finn drunkenly hooked up that first time.

“Me too,” said Finn. “I’ve only been with you.” Chris guessed Finn felt he should add that, you know, in the spirit of the conversation.

“The cream is psychosomatic,” said Chris. “It is all in my head.”

“What is?”

“The crawling on my skin,” said Chris.

“The crawling on your skin?”

“Yes, not another man,” said Chris.

Finn laughed nervously. “Is that why the cream is on the bench?”

“Yes, that’s why the cream is on the bench.”

“What? Crab ointment?”

“Yes. I had a struggle to get rid of them once. And sometimes I feel them. Imagined, don’t worry. But…” Chris shook all over. “Yuk.”

“They can’t hurt you?”

“Have you ever had them?”

Finn blushed. “Yeah, sure, um...”

“How many times?”

“Oh, come on, you don’t expect me to admit to that?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You might think less of me.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“How many times have you had them?”

“More than once,” said Finn. “Is that enough information?”

“So, bigger than a bread box?”

Finn laughed. “Yes, sure, let’s say that.”

“So many many times is what I am hearing?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t use quite so many manys.”

“So many times?”

“It doesn’t really sound much better.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Oh?” Finn looked crestfallen.

“Oh, Finn, I am kidding you.”

“Sure.”

“Yes, positive, I don’t care how many times you have had them, despite only ever having them once myself.”

“What?”

“It’s a joke.”

Finn inhaled noticeably. “My house mate used to call me pigpen, because of how many times I had them.”

“Oh.” Chris kept a blank face for as long as he could, but eventually he couldn’t help but smile. “Is that a Peanuts reference.”

“Yes.”

This Is It

This is it. There is nothing else. Only this. This is our shot, don't fuck it up. You don't get another shot at it. No. Never. No chance.

And when it is done?

It's over, all over, everything is over, never to come again, done, finished, final. Minute by minute. Life time by life time. Only what is coming, will come. The only thing you have control over is your positioning against the thing that comes.

You can choose what you get, to an extent, by a positive outlook, a cheery face to the world. The best way to face it is to be happy. Content. In a random world, chose life. Chose happiness and everything else will take care of itself. With some luck. But a good nature super charges luck, haven’t you heard?

Be happy. Make a life of it. As there is no going back, there is no revision, there is no practice run, there is no re-write, there is no chance to start again. Sorry to inform you. But, you must have known.

This is it! 

It is happening now.

It’s draining out of you now, draining away. Your life, even if you don’t notice, it is happening. Right now, ebbing away. Minute by minute, second by second, you are closer to the end than you were before, even if you don’t feel it.

“Do you think I look older?”

“Older than when?”

“Than five minutes ago?”

“Oh, darling.”

“This morning?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Than I did last year?”

“Well, if we are talking about last year?”

“Our photos from our trip to Amsterdam?”

“Five years ago?”

“Is it five years ago?”

“The last trip?”

“When you stood in the moonlight in that lime green cagoule?”

“You were smoking those long joints.”

“Do I look older now?”

“That was five years ago?

“My how the time disappears.”

“You are lovelier now…”

“That wasn’t the question?”

“What was the question?”

“Do I look older?”

“You are as beautiful now…”

“Than when we drove that Fiat around southern Europe?”

“Twenty years ago?”

“Than when Oliver was born?”

“He’s twenty one years old?”

“He got your good looks.”

“He looks so much like you that if we put a dress on him…”

“Do I look older now, than then?”

“When you were red faced and screaming as he slid out of you?”

“To think that big boy came out of me.”

“It is the only time I have ever believed in miracles.”

“Do I look older than that night on the dance floor?”

“When we met?”

“What was the song that was playing?”

“You sexy thing.”

“You sexy thing?”

“Ah yes, I remember it like yesterday.”

“Do I look older than that night?”

“You had a mass of blonde curls.” 

“You had long dark hair.”

“You were lovelier than the sun and the moon and all the flowers in between.”

“We danced together until dawn.”

“I loved you from the very moment we were introduced.”

“I think I loved you from that moment too.”

“That was thirty years ago.”

“Do I look older now than then?”

“No.”

Blah, blah, blah

Girl's just talk, don't they. I must be getting intolerant? I went to the post office and had to stand in line for quite some time and these two girls in front of me never shut up, not for a second. There wasn't even a pause. They didn't even seem to draw breath. They just kept on yak yak yakking until I wanted to scream, "Shut up!" "Shut up!" "Shut up!"

I just have to breath instead. 1, 2, 3…

“Oh, I know. Did you see the look on her face?”

“Like a slapped arse, she was not happy.”

“It was Jeremy’s fault…”

“Oh yes, I know.”

“He was the one…”

“He was, that is for sure.”

“I thought Natalie was going to lose it completely.”

“At Jeremy?”

“Oh, at everyone by that stage. Her face said it all.”

“Her face said it all.”

“I didn’t know where to look…”

“Or say. I didn’t want to be dragged into it just because I made an off the cuff comment.”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I was keeping my mouth shut that was for sure.”

“For sure.”

“And all Simon could do was laugh.”

“Standing there in his sweaty jogging shorts and singlet.”

“Good legs though.”

“Oh yes, I have always said that about Simon.”

“He could fling his jogging shorts on the end of my bed any day.”

“Any day, I agree,”

“Could you imagine?”

“Do you think about that?”

“With Simon?”

“Yes, with Simon.”

“It has crossed my mind, I am not ashamed to say.”

One leant into the other and whispered. (but I was right behind them so I could still hear them) “More so than with Jeremy?”

“Oh no!” The other exploded, well, whispered explosion. Trying to keep a squeal contained.

“Never!” 

“No, never.”

They both laughed. 

One of them held up her little finger. The other one tried to stifle her laugh with one hand as she slapped the other girl’s hand away with the other hand.

Then it was all fast whispered hisses, which somehow was even more annoying.

“Oh stop!”

“It’s true though.’

“So true.”

"Isn't it."

They both cleared their throats simultaneously as if indicating a return to normal transmission.

“But Natalie?”

The other one groaned.

“Oh, I am not looking forward to going back to the office.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Like a bitch on wheels is Nat when she is pissed off.”

“Like a bitch…”

“If she says anything, I am just going to tell her to take it up with Jeremy.”

“Me too, I am going to tell her the same thing.”

“Let her sort it out with him.”

“Yes, sort it out with him.”

“And leave me out of it.”

“Out of it." She nodded her head emphatically. "Me too?”

“Next please.”

“I’ll see you back at the office.”

“Yes, see you back at the office.”

Madge

As me old granny used to say – that's the alcoholic one, on my dad's side – “Put your arm out so I can measure the length, yes, just like that.”

Her house always had a peculiar smell, now I recognise it as booze and fags and air that was stale.

Sadly, she died youngish, sixty nine, too much booze and heart break. My grandfather died young and left her penniless and alone, before I was born, before I was even thought of. She smoked menthol cigarettes and always had a brandy on the go. She could play backgammon like a shark, she'd encourage me to bet. 

“It makes life more interesting,” she’d say. “You wait and see.”

She'd sneak me puffs on her cigarette when I was a kid, (no she didn’t, I just like to romanticise it that way) when mum and dad had gone to bed. She always wanted to know if there was a girl in my life. She'd want to know the details, but I knew how far I could go.

She used to knit me jumpers, “Boys need woollens to see them through life.” She’d laugh and pat me on the head. “You’ll understand when you are older and have to travel for love.”

She’d knit jumpers only in kid’s sizes, she’d knit them all day. There was speculation that the booze rendered adult sizes out of her abilities. (I didn't hear that until I was grown up, of course)

Or she’d spend the day at the pub, bringing cream cakes home for tea.

She loved me. I miss her. She’d look after us when mum and dad were out for the night.

I don’t remember if she used to drink when she used to babysit us? I don’t remember anything like that, but I would have been young, of course. But mum told me they couldn’t go into town shopping unless they stopped for a brandy on the way in and on the way home again. So, I don’t know how she would have got on for the evening babysitting without a drink.

I don’t think it would be acceptable to let a drunk babysit your kids now a days, we’re far too uptight to let that happen, but, it was a different time when we were being babysat as kids, and she was my father’s mother, after all, so I’m guessing it would have been more difficult to say no.

A Fine Mist of Rain Fell

I stepped out on to the street and pulled my gate shut. The air was cold, I shivered. I pulled my collar up around my neck as my body vibrated momentarily underneath, shivered. It was early, the full veil of the morning hadn't quite lifted. The light was grey, a fine mist of rain fell.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard, pad, pad, pad behind me. Then whoosh, a jogger whirled passed me. I stepped sideways and out of the way. I mean, he probably wasn't going so fast, maybe I was still on slow, no coffee yet, no heart starter to make my eyes fully open.

I heard him snort and pant, gasp in, exhale. I watched his legs, like springs, propel him past me. I watched his ankles flip up behind him and then push his feet to the ground, straightening as his shoes touched down on the bitumen. The backs of his wide-legged black shorts flapped with each step. The was a hint of his red jocks underneath hugging him tight. His arms swung rhythmically, matching his breaths.

His back was straight, his head was up, he pranced. he was  a fine specimen.

He flipped around the corner at the intersection and was gone. He was nowhere to be seen when I turned that same corner a few moments later.

The street was quiet again, except for my short, sharp breaths sounding in my ears. And the clop, clop, clop of my own feet. The morning air was cold on my face. I yawned. The inhale of breath was cold. I looked both ways on the street, and then I crossed over to the other side and continued my walk. A car drove past me on the street, otherwise it was early and it was only me making my way in the deserted street.

Fear In A Big Car

“The same fear of being assaulted, is essentially the same fear that makes woman want to drive four wheel drives,” says Emerald.

“You can't touch me in this?” says Jerry

“I can get you first, she thinks, as she cuts everyone off... and the persecuted become the persecutors,” says Emerald

“That's life, I suppose,” says Harvey.

“Increasingly, we are making decisions on fear and not on logic. The commercial world's greatest asset, keep them afraid and they will spend more money to make themselves feel better, to make themselves feel safer,” says Brian.

“Funny how self preservation is our greatest goal,” says Jerry.

“It kind of has to be, now doesn’t it,” says Harvey.

“Mine is to get lovely art on the wall, a 911 in the garage, and a beach house down the coast. Oh yes, and a few dollars saved in the bank,” says Brian.

“Stop living in fear girls, go and get yourself a nice dress instead, a job you enjoy, and a man for your bed,” says Harvey.

“Easy for you to say,” said Emerald.

“Oh yes, I know. It’s just that this conversation was about chicks in their 4WDs, namely of the charcoal grey Volvo variety,” says Brian.

“Watch out, I am coming through, sitting up as high as I like. I feel invincible in my command centre on wheels. Out of my way, little man, you are in my path,” says Emerald.

“You won’t fit through there, Emerald. No, you won’t,” says Harvey.

“COMING THOUGH!” says Emerald.

“Jasus Xist, you fitted through. Dear Universe! How did you do that?” says Harvey.

“Cackle.” Emerald laughs.

“You sound possessed when you laugh like that, Emerald, you really do!” says Jerry.

“Maniacal laugh. The engine roaring,” screams Emerald.

“Did you see the look on that poor sod’s face,” says Jerry.

“He’s lucky he had a face left now that I am done. GET OUT OF MY AWY!” says Emerald.

“It is fear, that makes them act in such away, it has to be, as nobody is that fucked up naturally,” says Jerry. “Surely?”

“It could have been just as easily said, Stop living in fear boys, go and get yourself a nice dress, in which you can feel the fresh air blow, a job you enjoy, and a man for your bed. Enjoy taking what your wife/girlfriends can’t give you, in your tiny briefs and your arse swishing in just such away, being such a tease, baby,” says Brian.

“Women have to win sometimes,” says Emerald. “They can’t always live in fear.”

“Here’s to women,” says Jerry.

“To women feeling safe,” says Harvey.

“And to all those men who make them live in fear,” says Brian. “Hold up your glasses.”

They hold their glasses high in the air.

“Fuck you,” they all say in unison.

They scull their drinks.

“More wine?” says Emerald. She holds up bottles of red and white wine, one in each hand. Everyone wants a refill.

“All those men who make women afraid, they should be given to the gays,” says Jerry. 

“In their undies,” says Harvey.

“Made to dance like go-go boys,” says Brian.

“Until they fucken drop,” says Emerald.

“And judged on performance,” says Jerry. 

“And looks,” says Harvey.

“And how they fill their briefs,” says Brian.

“They should be made to serve the queens meals?’ says Jerry.

“High tea,” says Harvey.

“Get their arses pinched while they are doing it,” says Brian.

“Get touched up,” says Jerry.

“Right up the crack in their arses,” says Emerald.

“Spoken down to…,” says Harvey.

“Like objects,” says Brian.

“Yes, that would fix them,” says Jerry.

“Knock the misogyny out of them,” says Harvey.

“Fuck them up,” says Emerald.

“And if it doesn’t, they should be kept in service,” says Brian.

“In their scanties,” says Jerry.

“Until they learn how to behave around the opposite sex,” says Harvey.

“I’ll take one,” says Brian. “Under my wing.”

“For the good of the planet, I assume,” says Jerry.

“Doing your bit for society, I assume?” says Harvey.

“More wine?” says Emerald. She held up the red and white bottles again.

“It will be the best gay version of They Shoot Horses Don’t They,” says Brian.

“Except for aggressive straight boys,” says Jerry.

“Dancing solo go-go style,” says Harvey.

“Until they drop,” says Brian.

“And they get carried off,” says Jerry.

“By muscle boys,” says Harvey.

“Getting dumped like bags of shit into bunks provided,” says Brian.

“With collars,” says Jerry.

“And leashes,” says Harvey.

“I’ll apply the lashes to the recalcitrant ones, right on their firm round arses,” says Brian. “This is for every woman you've made to feel afraid. Thwack!”

"This is for every girl you've hurt. Thwack!" says Jerry.

"This is for every girl you've made cry. Thwack!" says Harvey.

“More wine?” says Emerald.

What Happened?

What happened? We look around and every thing's changed and we ask the question. What happened? Do I remember? Have I had fun? What does any of this mean?

Did I fulfil my dreams?

Or, was I too busy living my life, working my days to pay for my nights? The bills never stopped, the wants never ceased, just decreased a little each year, if you know what I mean. By the time I am very old, I am sure I will be very still.

And suddenly it's ten, twenty years later and we are left wondering, what happened? What did I do? Where did time go? And suddenly you are having trouble getting up from the couch. I used to just spring up, now it is grab hold and heave-ho.

How did I get here?

But, I feel okay. Just the same.  Just the minutes slip sliding away. Oh? Now a groan, and an ache. What does that mean? What does that make? Can I remember any time before now?

I still feel the same, inside this old frame. I still feel like the young girl who ventured out into the world. I still feel like the eighteen year old, learning to drive, the twenty four year old, moving out of home, the twenty nine year old, falling in love, the thirty nine year old looking out through these eyes, the forty nine year old, wining at life. I still feel the same deep down in my soul, if any of us have souls, that I always have? I still feel like the girl I have always been.

It is just my refection that doesn’t add up any more. And what I feel when I try to spring up off the floor.

Old age, it should be illegal.

On 01 Sept 2010, at 7:56 PM

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

Dinner in the oven Chicken drumlets and vegetable cheese bake . All is ok .

This is my email Address from now on .

Denise

01.09.2010

New Email Address

Dumplings for dinner, Sammy is cooking. All is okay here.

My email address is the same.

Joan

On 3 Sep 2010, at 5:24 PM

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

Hi , i have no interest in talking to you , however you have my address and gifts need to posted now in order for them to arrive in time . I shall keep an eye on the postbox . PLEASE , do not send stale lemonade scones , one can only bear it ,I mean live it it up with so many people once in ones life , on your 50th . I think you have an upcoming birthday soon . Happy Birthday Joan . According to Ancestry.com , you were born in 1951 and it shows . I , as it turns out am 3 years younger than Kate , which means she turned 40 this year . So , just spoil me I think .

Hurtling towards 40 is not an easy thing Luv as I am sure you have long forgotten.

many happy returns . 

Denise

On Sat, Sep 3, 2010 at 5:41 PM

Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> wrote:

The only way you’d be hurtling towards 40, luv, was if you drove your car at a speed sign. As it turns out, I was born in 1971, right along with microprocessor Integrates CPU Function onto a Single Chip, and the reincarnation of Coco Chanel, a true woman of the modern age. Since we now follow the Amish tradition the only gift we could possibly manage would be lemonade scones, or a lovely line in aprons. It seems only fair, if I remember rightly you turn 55 any day now. Happy birthday, luv. Let me know where to send them. Three years younger than Kate? Weren’t you midwife at her birth?

My birthday is not for a week.

How long have I known you?

Joan

On 3 Sep 2010, at 6:10 PM 

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

It is no surprise to me , that you admit freely that today that you are mostly machine these days , being moments away from 70 . As for Coco darl as close as you are ever likely to get is if Sammy serves you a mug of it in a soup bowl at bed time . Pats you on the head and says nighty , nighty you old cunt , and you are most likely to be wearing one , as he calculates what you are worth , well , dead .As for for following Amish tradition , goodness knows is goes beyond yourself . I know it very well after my last and particularly unfortunate , as always , meeting with the Octogenarian Peta Wellington and her toyboy who still thinks he is a toyboy , but really , that was 30 years ago , Shawn .Modern Man ? Grow an Amish beard , as your Bible requires for all Men and forbids the consumption of Pork .

No i was not mid-wife . I was not BORN YET.

Denise

On Sat, Sep 3, 2010 at 6:16 PM

Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> wrote: 

Mother Teresa has just been sainted, I’ll be next

Luv, in 1972, you were 25.

Joan

On 3 Sep 2010, at 6:21 PM

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

you forgot to add the two numbers together , 2+5 = 7 years old.

Denise

Date: 3/09/2010 6:28 PM (GMT+10:00)

From: Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> 

To: Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> 

Subject: Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

I forget nothing

Joan

On 3 Sep 2010, at 6:32 PM

DeniseJames787 <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

It just so unfortunate for you bunch of tragidies that , niether do I . As for Beatification , the only miracle associated with the likes of you is that you ate still alive.

Denise

On Sat, Sep 3, 2010 at 7:40 PM

Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> wrote: 

You wrote 'ate'

Joan

On Sat, Sep 3, 2010 at 8:14 PM

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote: 

I very rarely text . 

The word is ‘are’. Clear now? You old fool.

Denise

On 3 Sep 2010, at 8:15 PM

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Sleep well , enjoy your Cocoa .

Denise

03.09.2010, 9.19pm

Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Yes, indeed. Sweet dreams, luv

Joan

On 3 Sep 2010 9:20 PM,

"Joan Withers" <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> wrote: 

I’m not surprised you are in bed already... at your age

Joan

On 4 Sep 2010, at 5:43 AM 

Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

I wake at 5am to let Tim out , so i tend to retire early . My mirror always tells me that I am indeed "The most beautiful one of all" because of it . I guess you dont bother to look in the mirror any longer , replacing a shattered mirror on a daily basis , must have cost you a fortune by now .

Denise

Date: 4/09/2010 5:45 AM (GMT+10:00)

From: Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> 

To: Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> 

Subject: Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Don’t even glance into that looking glass, darl.

Joan

On 4 Sep 2010, at 5:51 AM, 

DeniseaJames787 <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

I bet you don’t. There has been a little fall of rain early this morning , however fortunately my smoking spot is still dry . I amabout to go outside . Been awake all night again have we?

Denise

Date: 4/09/2010 5:55 AM (GMT+10:00)

From: Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com> 

To: Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> 

Subject: Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

I just got up, just now. I just had a joint in the back yard in the dark, waiting for the Apex Gang to turn up.

How is Tim?

Joan

04.09.2010, 6.11am

Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

No doubt you are on to your 2nd sherry by 6am

Joan

On 4 Sep 2010, at 6:12 AM, 

DeniseaJames787 <DeniseJames787@gmail.com> wrote:

Apparently , the majority of that lot are black Africans , it's just an observation by the way . The sand belt is more likely to experience crime . Since you are stoned and it is dark ,however, get inside i say . What is so wrong with a cup of coffee , like i am enjoying.

Denise

04.09.2010, 6.13am

Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Just poured my second cuppa

Joan

4/09/2010 6:18 AM

From: DeniseJames787 <DeniseJames787@gmail.com>

Date: 4/09/2010 6:18 AM (GMT+10:00)

To: DeniseJames787 <DeniseJames787@gmail.com>

Cc: Denisejames787@gmail.com

Subject: Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Please . If you are stupid enough to take drugs , don't transfer you guilt onto me.   Tim is fine 4 months here now . 3 of hell and a somwhat expensive time, but finally he is enjoying being a pet and no longer has expectations of having to run for his dinner . I have always adored him and vice versa , but it has been a ttrial.

Denise

04.09.2010, 11.52pm

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

Alex has gone all right wing on us, he tells me he is a racist now, in his usual, sweet tone. He kept sending me Reclaim Australia literature, on Facebook. That was until I blocked him. Ha ha.

Joan

04.09.2010, 12.14pm

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

Oh dear , perhaps you should remind him that they may also include Italian migrants and definitely if they happen to gay , on their put them back on the boat agenda .

Denise

04.09.2010, 2.57pm

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

But I don’t think we should go in for sending any of the Italians back, gay or not.

Joan

04.09.2010, 4pm

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

If they live South of Fierenza or Roma , sorry about that , you must go 

I just cant understand how a 20th century migrant , and lets fsce it , they endured Australians falling over them selves to welcome them when they arrived . Even their children would have remembered the breeze of a time they had at school amungst all embrasing Aussie kids. It took 30 or more years before they were just part of the crowd .!!!! . Then they do it to new arrivals , go figure that out .

Remember, that was my life.

Denise

05/09/2010, 6.49pm.

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

How’s Tim?

Joan

05/09/2010, 6.49pm.

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

I already told you , you should read all of the content of your emails ! He's fine .

Denise

11/09/2010, 6.49pm

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

as truly superb as the word “fine” is, a descriptive word with very few peers, I did rather wonder if you had another word to go with it.

Joan

12/09/2010 9.18am

Subject: Birthday Weekend 2010

I shall search for the email regarding Tim . It may have been sent by text . If not easy to find I shall tell you about my 4 months with Tim . He is fine .

Denise

13/09/2010 12:19pm

Re: Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Luv, I never received this, despite you telling me that I did.

And I can tell you why, if you look at the “to” email address and the "from" email address, they are the same.

You sent it to yourself, you stupid old fool.

Joan

13.09.2010, 12.25pm

Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

Fool! All i was doing was having an intelligent conversation . There was little point in sending it to you.

Denise

12.09.2010, 12.33pm

Denise's Birthday 18SEPT 2010

You see info about tim . There is also sms and mms

Joan

Denise bitched that I didn’t read her email where she told me all about Tim.

When she sent me the email dated 4/09/2010 6:18 AM it clearly stated that she sent the email to herself and not to me, probably after too much wine

I remember when she was as sharp as a tack, oh, how long ago was that?

Date: 13/09/2010 1:05 PM (GMT+10:00)

From: Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com>

To: Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com>

Subject: Left hand, what is the right hand doing?

Another email you sent to yourself luv.

READ YOUR EMAILS, she demanded! Fool, she bleated. I’ve already sent that to you! she exclaimed.

Quick luv, what day is it? How many fingers am I holding up?

And what drugs were you talking about me taking? Half a Mogadon to sleep?

Joan

13.09.2010, 1.25pm

Subject: Left hand, what is the right hand doing?

Six fingers on your right hand , luv , your question is just too easy . You also have 6 toes on your right fool , i mean foot . That explains a lot , i have always thought .

Denise

18.09.2010, 6.27am

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday, luv. I hope you have a lovely day

Joan

18.09.2010, 6.29am

Happy Birthday

Thanks Luv

Denise

Date: 13/10/2010 10:47 PM (GMT+10:00)

From: Joan Withers <JoanWithers00@gmail.com>

To: Denise James <DeniseJames787@gmail.com>

Subject: Hello

I just thought of you, but Sammy says I can’t call you at 10.45pm, so I sent you this email instead.

Joan

14.10.2010, 10.54am

Subject: Hello

Hello , and he is right . Indeed!

Denise

15.10.2010, 9pm

Denise sent me a link to Shirley Bassey singing This Is My Life

31 Oct 2010 at 5:12 pm

To: Joan Withers JoanWithers00@gmail.com

Cc: DeniseJames787@gmail.com

Denise sent me a screen shot of her phone, I think.

No idea why. She must have hit the wrong button, again.

I'm Semi Interested In People

I'm semi interested in people, you know, as long as they don't interfere with my life too much, do their own thing, don't whine or gossip, or bore my pants off, I’m okay with them. Humans are interesting, in a self-focused, selfish kind, poke them and see kind of way. Cats and humans are alike, it's why some humans don't like their feline friends all that much, too alike.

Maybe, they'd make good pets? You know, a couple of throw humans for the end of the bed. 

"I can't sleep, entertain me." You know, the pretty ones. Go on, get on with it. Don’t be shy. Oh, don’t make me have to show you, surely your natural juices, your propensity to show of? Pheromones, hormones, just lick it and see. How else do any of you shag? It isn’t rocket science. Come on, I’m waiting.

The plain ones could still cook & clean, or take the rubbish out. Sort out your emails. I don’t know, what else did you used to get your mum to do?

I could teach them to say lines like a cocky, or stand like a statue. Or, maybe, I could just watch them wrestle on a mat, or make them sit up on their hind legs and catch chocolate in their mouths. Clap their hands and honk like a seal?

Of course, there would be a favourite, which, I guess, would get him into fights with the others. But, it can only toughen him up, which can't be a bad thing. You know, Rocky is my favourite.

The charismatic one, with big hands, who looks good on all fours.

You know how life works?

So many of them are worth a giggle and a point. And if they can take directions, all the better.

 

I Meant To Give Up Smoking When I Was Thirty

I'm an addict to the "tines" – nicotine, caffeine... Saltine, ha, ha.

I meant to give up smoking when I was thirty. Then it was forty. The next one doesn't bare thinking about, even if it is eons off yet.

Gotta put in some effort.

As for the caffeine, 6 cups a day, but I don't drink them all. Mostly, half goes cold and I go to make another.

Woo-hoo! Woop! Woop! Woop! Coffee wakes you up.

Give them a go, kids, coffee, cigarettes, crackers, you never know, you might just like them.

And on the Saltines, I suggest liverwurst.

Ah, and a sardine.

Over Population

Call the world's problems what you like, but the reality is that it is over-population, the hardest problem to solve. Because you know, every bastard thinks it is their right to have a child, procreate, spit out a little Jimmy, or little Sally.

So, why do we pay a baby bonus? It's actually an anti-environment policy. It is counter to the times. Seriously, if some clod wants to have a kid, let them pay for it themselves, that’s what I say.

Why are the political parties using refugees as a political tool? When, in reality, we should be embracing the redistribution of the world’s population as an environmental issue. We now have plenty of people, we've just got to move them around, that is the reality.

Funny how there are no barriers when it comes to trade? Free Trade agreements should be used for the world’s population.

Wouldn’t it take the pressure off governments, for countries with low birth rates. You don’t have to produce them, just import them. Easy.

But people doggedly stick to the right to bear kids. It is everybody’s birth right, so those with kids say. They don’t want to consider environmental issues when they want to have a kid. If they want to contribute to the world’s over population, let them pay for it themselves, that’s what I say.

The Real World

How many people don't live the lives they live in public, as they do in private? You know, those people say one thing, but act in another way in private. How common do you think this is? A conservative American politician is an anti abortion, but when his wife's life was threatened during pregnancy she, effectively, has an abortion to save her life. Homophobes? Racists. People who espouse monogamy, but have affairs on the side. People who espouse family values, but in private it’s a lie.

How many people pretend that the lives they live in public, match what they do in private. If we were all honest and admitted to our sexual proclivities, the world would be a less uptight place to live. There would be fewer scared people in the world.

If we were all honest, the world would be a happier place to live. There would be fewer scared people living in fear of being found out. So many more of us would be happy, not having to pour all of their energies into maintaining the charade.

It's funny what people think. It's weird what people think is important.

I like threesomes with my husband, with another man. He does too.

I like playing the field, the more girls the better.

I like seeing my husband with another man. Two guys are hot.

I like men when they crawl on top of me and dominate me.

I like piss. Drinking it down.

I like cum… all over me.

I like being tied up.

I like being smacked… my safe word is magnolia.

I like smelly foreskins.

I like stinky cunts.

I like taking it up the arse.

I can’t orgasm unless I am punched in the face.

I want my genitals to be stapled up my arse, after which I’m douched with my own blood.

I hate cum on my skin.

I like dressing up in school uniforms.

I like running the city, and dressing up in a French maid’s outfit in the brothel being told I am a bad girl.

I like fucking the dead, it is the only way I can do what I want to do.

I like men to take a crap in their jocks.

I like a woman to piss her knickers.

I like construction workers.

I like nurses.

I like school teachers.

I like them young.

I can only fuck when I am off my face on drugs.

I like doing it in public.

I like being caught by a stranger.

I like old woman.

I like them to pretend that I am forcing them.

I like being raped, it is the only way I get turned on.

I want the whole football team to fuck me on the back line.

I want to fuck my son’s girlfriend.

I want to be fucked by my daughter’s guy.

I like big girls, with veins in their legs.

I like men with cocks as big as my arm.

I’m a chubby chaser, they have to be big boned.

I get turned on by anything that is taboo.

Excuse Me!

People get very nervous if you walk around with your laces untied. You know, if I walk around with my laces untied.

I take my shoes off at work, and work in my socks. I find it more comfortable that way. I have naturally hot feet, hot in my leather shows. They don't smell, oddly enough, they never smell. I wonder if smelly feet is genetic, or something?

So, if I want to walk further than the photocopier, or even head down stairs, naturally, I have to put my shoes back on. Sometimes, I just slip them on and head to the lift, leaving them untied on purpose. You know, just to see. And it is easier that way.

Oh, I am just lazy, I’ve told you that before. Just slip them on, why bother tying them up if I am just going to take them off again. I always wear lace up shoes, never slipons. I hate the look of slipon shoes. They are for old school gays, or aging car salesmen. You know, for guys who have unbuttoned shirts, and multiple gold chains, who wear too much cologne.

I don't really see what the problem is, I can walk around no problem with the laces flapping in the breeze. I don't know what neurosis is at work there, something from our dim, dark, hereditary past, or childhood indoctrination, but there is always someone, with a furrowed brow and a nervous look, who points and nudges and says, 

"Excuse me, your laces are undone." Nervously. Often more than one person. Sometimes they line up. Well, no, they don’t normally line up, normally.

Occasionally there is a chorus. "Excuse me?" "Excuse me?" "Excuse me?" That’s one after the other in the office, or the tea room, rather than a choir, you understand.

Such childhood trauma, I think as I saunter past, seemingly oblivious.

Occasionally, one will chase me, tap me on the shoulder, and make me see the danger to my life and limb that I am clearly missing.

That always makes me chuckle.

You know, Sandra from reception, who married Brad and had 2.4 kids. Only does it missionary style with Brad on Saturday nights.

Or Gail from accounts, whose favourite expression is “It’s just not right,” whenever she encounters anything that didn’t come in her catholic, not quite middle class suburbs childhood package.

It makes me laugh mostly. What people concern themselves with. Seriously. And if I said mind your own business they would be offended. Of course, I wouldn’t say that, as I like the look of Mothering Sundays plastered right across their worried faces. Of course, I do.

It's Not Just Your Black Teeth, Or Your Stinking Arse

Bad behaviour, drinking again, like it is a thing, you know

they say it all surprised, like it had never happened before.

"Oh, dear god!" applause. “Someone get that fool a drink!”

And then there is your red wine mouth, you looked like a ghoul the last time you looked up. It surprised me, took me back. I was taken aback. I jumped, well, double took.

And all I could think of was the last time, and

red wine poo? It makes the poo paper look like gravely liquorice, I always think. Translucent Black. (good name for a band) A smear of trendy half muted, mat finish midnight strain.

Who looks? I know I always look. Do you? Does everyone admit to that? Looking at the crap you have just wiped from your arse? Don’t you have to look, so you know when to stop wiping? You don’t want to wipe the skin away. You want to be able to sit down whenever the mood takes you. I don’t suppose ladies admit to such things in polite company. (Most ladies would have you believe they don't shit at all)

It makes your vomit turn pink, (red wine, not poo)

Let me hold your hair back, as your mood turns grim,

your breath stinks, and there is all that drool down your chin,

get in water and you sink, oh no, we would not recommend that,

you can’t swim, you shouldn’t even try, glug, glug, glug, glug,

because as they say, it’s a good way to die. Cheaper than a Swiss clinic on the fly, though, I might just add.

And yet, we are all practically congratulated for downing some red plonk. A bottle, or two? An afternoon hard at it. A goon bag with a straw up a laneway with the headlights still blazing. It is amazing, how any of us got through our teenage years.

“More wine fellas?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“I think it might help to relax you.”

“And forget.”

“Forget?”

“My premonitions…”

“Inhibitions?”

“Oh, no,” And he belched loudly. “I definitely saw that coming.”

“But you didn’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

It's Not Just Your Teeth That Change Colour

Bad behaviour, drinking again,

They say it surprised, like it had never happened before.

Oh, Red wine mouth, you looked like a ghoul the last time you looked.

Red wine pooh, it makes the pooh paper look like gravely liquorice.

Who looks? I know I always do. Do you?

It makes your vomit turn pink,

your mood turn grim,

your breath stink,

get in water and you sink,

you can’t swim, you shouldn’t even try,

because as they say, it’s a good way to die.

My Home Town

I love that Melbourne is multicultural, but then, aren't all cities now a days? What with the immigration question and all?

Of course, conservative politicians exploit immigration ruthlessly to spread fear and hate hoping it will encourage people to vote for them, but that is not peculiar to my home town. In fact, my home is the least likely place in Australia where racism would work for political reasons.

The most civilised city in the country, is my home town.

I love it being a tram city, ding, ding, all aboard! It is one of the biggest tram cities in the world. Melbourne people are quite proud of that fact. Melbourne people are proud of their city.

I love its eclectic lane ways, their avant garde appearance, it's maze-like web across the heart of the CBD.

Marvellous Melbourne. It was once one of the greatest Victorian cities in the world.

I love that the people unabashedly wear black to make it a very black city. Black is style, black is culture, black is assurance in our own being.

And we haven’t even talked about coffee. Best in Australia. So many of the other cities in Australia are envious of Melbourne’s coffee reputation. Lots of Italians immigrated to Melbourne, so that’s where the fine coffee came from.

Black Car

Who Is a Pretty Boy?

I was at the top of Bourke Street nearly at Spring, attempting to make my way past The Green Chilli, or The Red Pickle, through the people sat the outdoor tables on the foot path. The people and the tables were many, the spaces in between were limited.

A handsome Indian guy smiled, tilted his head, stepped sideways, and swept his hand in front of himself for me to walk through before him. He looked me in the eye and smiled when I hesitated. His beautiful eyes twinkled, his lips parted gently to show a row of pearl white teeth. My breath was taken away just for a moment. I guessed he knew it. He had the self assured smile of a man who was born handsome.

"After you," he said.

I nodded, as if to say thank you, and stepped past.

That jawline, that bone structure, that skin. I won't tell you how he filled out his jeans, I guess you can imagine, but I did notice.

"Thank you," I said.

"Oh no, it is my pleasure," he responded.

I looked back and he was still gazing at me. I nodded my head again and smiled.

Tall and strapping. He had large hands and big feet. I noticed the feet because he had those long, pointy kind of shoes on, which accentuated the length of his feet. 

I wondered? You know what I wondered.

I don't know what they say about Indian guys, in particular? But, I know what they say about guys in general and from my experience it is true what they say. But, what about Indian guys, are they known to have, er, big feet? 

I can’t say I have ever heard it said, you know, about their feet? No, I can’t say that I have.