visitors

The new desk is due at 9:30. The previous evening I dismantle my ‘old’ office, the bench the length of the room under the window, the computer and umpteen peripherals—cords untangled, monitor, modem and telephone disconnected.

A thirty-third hours of rain wets me as I begin the day ferrying shelf after shelf to the carport. I scale the ladder time and again, store the shelves and retrieve others from the rafters. I clean each new shelf, swabbing off god-knows-what muck from the carport roof.

I vacuum the office floor and all is ready. I start piecing the new shelves together until the JRT rushes the front door. Instead of the desk man, my friend Rob stands on my threshold, numb face, a huge filling repacked. His dentist practises in Lilydale. Unexpected visitors are rare, the previous one in 2005.

We hug and he enters, climbs over the office stuff that clutters the lounge room. Rob fondles the JRT’s ears. We talk about days in the shearing shed, fellows we went to school with. The desk man arrives at eleven, unloads three flat packs and two long shelves, goes to work. Rob and I chew the fat; I’m glad not to be watching the desk take shape in the other room.

Rob departs as Desk Bloke finishes. He carries away an expansive rug, sundry tools and three large cardboard boxes in one hit. I wipe down the desk, vacuum the sawdust. The JRT rushes the door again. My parents, a Boston bun, and goodies I’ll take to my grand-daughter in Bendigo next week enter the house.

My mother hands me a wonderful little gift, an Aboriginal dot painting mouse-pad—the Stone Age meets the twenty-first century. I fill her empty bag with five books. We talk in the lounge room, religion, politics, children—hers, mine, my sister’s. My niece is in hospital again, psychotic. They depart in the early afternoon.

Lunch is another slice of Boston bun, then it’s the delicious task of making a ‘new’ office. Up high above the desk go the two big shelves, the shelving unit on the other side of the room next. Books and boxes come out of other rooms. I spend an hour under the desk reconnecting the computer and peripherals, toggling cords, tucking them away behind the modesty panels.

I flick the switch and everything fires up first time—monitor, modem, speakers, woofer, telephone, printer, wireless mouse and keyboard. I vacuum again, spread an Afghan rug of the floor.

My good woman rings to check progress. Done and delighted, I tell her. She asks about the rug; it’s on loan from her friend. Perfect, but it cost nearly $2k so I tell her I can’t afford whatever price her friend wants to sell it for. My good woman tells me it’s a birthday present from her. Wow!

I make a cuppa, sit at my new desk, get some music coming out of the speakers, and type.

Rock on.