Trade Me. I remember why I stopped listing items a while ago. It was because I was getting annoyed with people asking silly questions and expecting bargain basement prices so they could sell stuff on at their boutique stores. And being slack about payment. But most of all it was because of the shocking lack of interest my GLORIOUS 1970s gear received. Things are moving slowly at present, much as in every other aspect of my life. Everything is so utterly depressing. All my friends moving away. All 3 of them that is. Living with younger flatmates who are already more confident and able than I ever will be, or perhaps that is the advantage of not yet realising how futile it all is. Undiplomatic as it is, I often wish my parents had been sterilised. How fortunate I am to have been born in an era with unprecedented opportunities to moan. Online, I could vlog, blog or podcast my own special blend of disgruntlement. The jury is out on whether that is any better or worse than using online resources to create wish-fulfilment fiction. I guess before the internet people had moaning hotlines, before that Party lines, and maybe before that they clustered around the radio listening to someone moaning. Lord Haw Haw perhaps. The creative might have tried a few 12 bar blues. Still earlier and they could just libel each other in the paper; what fantastic fun that must have been!
Maybe I need a diversion off-line. One that I can manage even though the early starts I am enduring just compounds my bad moods. So, how about bringing back coded messages in the personals columns in the ODT. The thrill of trying to break the code and get the gossip will liven up my days no end. I may live vicariously because lord knows nothing ever happens to me, except the occasional shouted insult enlivening my walk home. That's usually someone driving by. I can generally hold in my pedestrian rage even in the face of bad Dunedin driving.
Presumably driving in larger cities is of a higher standard than that in Dunedin, so that is one reason to try to get out of here. But then, wouldn't I just be moving to become even more boring and insignificant elsewhere? Is it possible? Could I be more of a depresso hermit than I already am? It's this kind of thought that makes me wish I could be part of a colonising power. Can't make it at home? Go and be superior to another race even while you don't measure up to your own society.
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4 comments:
I often wish somone would just tell me what I should be doing with my life. it would be so much simpler. That's why I am going to tell you what I think - no - what I know you should be doing. Trust me.
You should be writing a novel, my dear. A kind of Dunedin "Bright lights, big city" novel.
And if that doesn't work out, perhaps you will consider waiting with me for the next recruitment of writers for SHortland Street.
But I'm serious. Go write a book. Start NOW.
Shortland Street is positively fecund, brimming with possibilities. If you and I became writers on it we could perform a genre hijack like on the Australian soap Chances, which started out normal enough but then became weird and mystically supernatural. Perhaps Shortland Street hospital would be launched into space and meet many aliens, on whom Doctors could merrily malpractice
funnily enough i was thinking the ward needs to be haunted by a ghost...
I try not to think about ghosts this time of year, it all winds up with Dickensian Christmas foulnyss. However, how about Chris Warner has a tragic accident, his hands are severed so they replace them with Guy Warner's hands and then he is unable to control them?
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