Go West

Goodbye Bogan-villea, hello ‘The West’.

We've made it. We've ARRIVED. After months of packing, two bulged discs, humanely euthanising the mangey cat and successfully throwing most of what we own into the tip, BtT, the adolescent and I boarded a cheap one-way flight to The West (well we boarded eventually… these things have to be expected with cheap one-way flights) and I must say, we arrived with quite a bang.

The rello’s, being humorous and midst a three-month drought, asked us to ‘bring the rain with us’. Didn’t seem like a bad request, so… we did. Picky bastards apparently didn’t want flash flooding or hailstorms though. People bloody well want everything don’t they?

Our cars, being unable to drive themselves across, were still coming by train, or truck or ship or something (after organising so many things we’re unable to remember details… there’s a receipt somewhere… hope for the best…) and of course the new house by the beach isn’t ready yet (bloody tradespeople) and so we’re staying with rello’s. I like to call them B2 (second brother of four… BtT being B4) and SIL 2 (sister in law 2). They’ve generously offered use of their cars here and there. B2 has a brand new Mercedes so we avoid that one for fear it may have Bond-like powers behind all the fancy buttons and leather. We chose SIL 2’s Honda. Brand new. Zippy. Good cup holders. The Company pays for the fuel. Done!

'The Company' you ask? What type? We’ll get to that later…

So here we were, zipping around in the Honda, checking out the beach, our progressing new home (with roof, good sign…) thinking ‘ahhhhh, this is nice. LOVE the weather here. Shall we get a convertible some time? Maybe after the jetski.’ BtT had lined up a few quotes for work (“ahhh yeah, I can rip that out for ya mate…”), one of which was in a posh suburb where people pay ridiculous amounts of money for tradies to make things look swank.

No worries, SIL 2 insisted, take the Honda. In retrospect, not a good call.

I like to go to quotes with BtT. I get to operate the GPS if I behave. I get to sit in the car. I listen to the radio, play my iPhone games and do random things like calculate the proportion of passers-by wearing rubber thongs. BtT goes in, salesman-like, writing things down, humming, hahhhhhing, saying posh plant names aloud, measuring bits, charming homeowners and then we leave. Usually fairly uneventful. Except today… for today we are doing the first quote ‘in the West’.

“Ahhhh, and over here I’m thinking paving… (or whatever it is that BtT suggests)”

“LOVING it!!! You are an East Coast Landscapery God!”

And then it happened.

A piece of hail the size of a cricket ball landed between BtT and ‘the client’.

“Right”, yelled BtT, “I’m outta here. Give ya call with the quote!”

And with that off we drove, in the Honda, to

a) find shelter (fail),

b) outrun the storm (fail)

c) be hailed upon stuck in traffic like half of Perth (success!!)

Brockie did end up outrunning most of the storm once we’d passed ‘the tunnel’ (local speak for a tunnel…) and we only managed to slightly wreck SIL2’s car. Nothin’ on B2’s day though. He partially owns an insurance company. Ooopsie. Dinner conversation:

“How was your day b2?”

“Pretty shit.”

“Yeah, fair enough”.

There’s been other settling in events that warrant mention, mainly involving the BHG’s grasp of the English language. There are very large gumnut things here, like HUGE. They’re called Honky Nuts and up in ‘the Hills’ where we’re staying temporarily there’s even a large honky nut water feature on a roundabout (yes, really) celebrating the honky nut. So, here we were walking along to the shops, wearing sneakers instead of thongs in order to avoid slipping on the damn gumnuts on ‘roids and BHG says, “good grief there’s a lot of those horny nuts around here!” BtT commended BHG on her Bogan creativity, but we suggested that we remember to call them honky nuts in front of Gran. Grandad might susggest a home bottling day of these prolific aphrodisiacs.

Then there’s my Bogan accent.

Blossy kinda never knew she had an accent until she went to university in the big smoke. There, a prac teaching supervisor tried to elocute me by suggesting I don’t ‘drop me g’s and y’s, hence stop sayin’ stuff like “Oi kids, we’re gunna go runnin’ and jumpin’, wanna cum out and do playin’ on the grass ay?” I thought I was rather clever once I started speakin’ in sentences instead of cluttered phrases…. definite progress at eighteen years of age for Bush Bogan Blossy. Well now, in The West, I’m being picked as …. yes… the unthinkable… a Noo Zealunder. Which, of course, I AM NOT. As the friggin’ sign I’m about to hang around me neck clearly says.

Looks like we’ll have to make a sign for BHG as well, regarding the ‘home schooling’. Seeing as though we’re an hour’s drive from the new house (and school) for eight weeks, I’m home schooling her (that bloody teaching degree did come in handy after all...) which is apparently not an issue for anyone except the lady at the Fruit & Veg store. Twice now she’s asked the BHG “why aren’t you at school today?”. The first time BHG answered “I’m being home schooled”. To which we were were given that 'oh.my.god.Weirdos have moved into our unfestered suburb look'. Ok, so I WAS wearing tie-dye and brushing my hair now seems slightly unnecessary now that I'm unemployed. The second time BHG was asked, this afternoon, she just stared blankly at this truant-officer-come-fruiterer. I answered for her today. Something along the lines of “She’s being home-schooled.” Fruity Freida replied, “Oh yes, you told me that last time didn’t you?” Yes,  we did. Shall we get a sign? Is it illegal to have a 14 year old at the shops at 2pm on a weekday? Shall I get BHG to spell some random words aloud to prove she’s not kept locked in an attic? We’re not a weird religion you know. We just eat a lot of fruit, enjoy Foxtel and we’re temporarily HOME-SCHOOLING. Thanks for your interest!

And so the evening falls (discerningly early... due to the lack of daylight saving here...) upon another ‘day of adjustment’ to life in what is not a foreign country, merely the other side of Australia. No immunisations or passport required, yet a different culture nonetheless.

Horny nut anyone?

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Go West, The Village People, 1979.