ceremony

I’m reading Bukowski’s Post office so he’s setting the tone of my life right now; things are a bit down-at-heel. But only in my mind. Nonetheless …

The 6:27 out of Croydon is an in-between train—the 5:43 is phosphorescent with construction workers’ fluoro jackets, the 7:16 packed with suits and high heels. The 6:27 has empty seats all the way to the underground.

Around Central I look up from Post office, notice a woman opposite, all in black, disaffected look on her dial, one black-stockinged leg up on the seat. She sucks at her teeth, has a mouth built to suck cock. I’m channelling Bukowski; he made me write that. She’d suck you just to relieve her tedium.

I’m on my way to Canberra. The Skybus is overflowing with poor saps who can’t afford to bang their refrigerator-sized suitcases in a taxi. All I’m carrying is an A4-sized bag with my Macbook Air, Bukowski, plastic cards for every purpose and contingency, the day’s agenda on a printed sheet.

No one on this early morning Skybus has any colour in their face, gestures or clothing, except me: pastel lilac gay-boy jumper from Paris and long white pants because I’m going to be in the company of the Minister for Education.

Work would pay for that taxi but I can’t bring myself to spend $220 on taxi fares. Instead I part with $3 on the train—myki Seniors concession—and $28 for a return fare on the Skybus. Today I’ll save my employer about $200 but will I get any credit for that?

Man oh man, this is gunna be awful. My bowels are full of shit and no chance to empty them. I just want to be anywhere but riding to the airport for a return flight to Canberra all in the space of nine hours.

My duty at the award ceremony is to talk meaningfully to anyone I bump into—kids, principals, colleagues from all over Australia, dignitaries. Over lunch I spy the Western  Australian senator deputising for the Minister for Health and Ageing standing alone. I sidle over for a chat. We get on well. She’s an atheist, lives with her partner who has recently changed gender.

While waiting for the return flight I hob-nob with the NSW contingent in the Qantas toffs’ lounge. The MM national manager asks for our critiques of the award event. I tell her that before the event I’d rather have spent the day pulling in-grown hairs from my rectum but have come to see the value of the ceremony. A NSW colleague says she values my honesty.

No point kissing people’s arses: there’s nothing to learned by that.

Rock on.