Of Barriers

A while ago RobertPlant left a message on my phone bemoaning the fact that we had missed The Sonics when they'd recently played in Sydney. He followed this valuable info up with a series of moans which I'm pretty sure were meant to convey existential angst but came off sounding creepy. I did what I do with most phone calls from him: I ignored it. He waited a while for me to ring him up and do the wailing and gnashing of teeth and say, "Listen to this! Listen to this!" and hold my phone out so he could hear me renting my garments, and when I didn't he cracked and called me with just the slightest shred of sulkiness in his voice.

Wasn't I outraged that we had missed this great opportunity? Wasn't I now going to to spend the rest of year in a deep depression, without acknowledging that even if I had known this band were playing in Sydney I wouldn't have jumped on a plane just to go & see them?

No, as it happens, on both counts - because I haven't got the foggiest notion who The Sonics are.

RobertPlant was staggered. "Don't know who they are? You do know who they are! You do! I've played all their music for you."

"Well, I must have zoned out because I don't remember."

"You do remember!"

(At this protestation I had visions of my beloved Bloody Ern, who seemed to share a similar sense of entitlement as to what and wasn't in my memory banks when he was reminiscing on some detail of a fishing or hunting trip that I claimed not to recall. "You do remember!" he'd insist, meaty fists pounding down on some invisible surface hanging in the air. At that point I liked to shrug, just to wind him up a bit more.)

"You don't remember, huh?" said RobertPlant, like he was finally ready to concede. "I don't see why not. I don't think it was 1.30am and I'm almost certain you weren't trying to kick me out of your house so you could go to sleep."

Yes. But what dreams may come.

Except This

I arrived at RobertPlant's haus on Saturday arvo prior to us heading off with New Girl to see Spandau Ballet & Tears for Fears. He wasn't yet dressed, there was a Small Thing running free, a dog barking and no Tam O'Shanter to be seen. Even though this is a typical state of affairs I let it get me a little hot under the collar, and I may have been a trifle short with him. Or torn strips, depending upon your point of view. As always, he seemed unmoved, which only serves to get me more irate. I huffed off to the lounge room to wait.

Eventually we were out the door, with much eye-rolling from me.

As we were leaving the haus, RP waved his horrific sombrero at me and asked if I'd carry it. I looked at his completely unencumbered form. "What the maldicion? Why are you expecting me to carry your maldicion hat?"

"Because," he said, bending down and picking up a giant stack of books, "I'm carrying a present for you."

You know, it was fabulous weather and a fantastic show. I got really drunk.

She Had to Say It Was a Good Day

The Small Thing refers to the next-door neighbours as 'the neighbourhoods'. After she'd ripped open and discarded the birthday present I'd given her she informed me the neighbourhoods would be over shortly to cough up with more birthday goodies.

The thing is, these so-called neighbourhoods are just a couple of sweet old ladies who've only ever drunk iced tea and have no idea what moves can be busted to his music. Unless, of course, in the ways typical of the very young, Small Thing sees their inner gangsta.

Or else she's confusing them with that other, genuinely terrifying old lady: Don Mary.

A 90-year-old in black, wrap-around shades is a force to be reckoned with. She has a ready supply of horses at her disposal.

And Fast

RobertPlant rang me yesterday while I was cheering myself up, browsing the shelves at Officeworks.

"Not at work?" he asked.

"Nah, I chucked a sad and decided to come home."

"I'd say to come round here but [Tam O'Shanter's ex-stepmother] is coming over, and I wouldn't put you through that."

"It's okay. I just want to go home, get into my pyjamas and, you know [adopts poxy voice] be with myself for a while."

"I dread to think where that might be heading."

He needn't have worried, it would've only been the same place everything else in my life is apparently going: nowhere.

No, my first name *ain't* 'Baby".

RobertPlant was anxious. He was looking for my blessing.

For some time, we've been habitues, devotees if you will, of a rather excellent little secondhand book shop at the Stock Road Markets. RobertPlant heard the markets were closing down, though who knows if that's true, and has had ants in his pants to get back there and do his customary raid on the precious books.

This morning he decided he couldn't wait any longer and would go today. He rang me to confess: was that okay with me? Or would I despise him forever? I told him that in matters of the heart, he must do what is best for him.

Besides, as I so often remind him, he may be the one with the vast library, but I'm the one actually getting down to the business of reading the books. Yeah, he always hates that.

Hands On

I mentioned to someone how much I preferred driving a manual.

"But your car isn't a manual," said RobertPlant, who was also there, thus explaining his ability to comment.

"Yes it is! How often have you been in my car? You've driven my car! Did you happen to notice the gear stick?"

"Oh. I was wondering why the engine was making that high-pitched noise on the freeway."

I'll start with this:

So when I told RobertPlant that, as it turns out, I have a sister, he told me that he was convening a meeting of the Only Children's Club and, as president and treasurer, would move and second a motion* that my membership be terminated with extreme prejudice.

He's jealous.

However, the news has given Tam O'Shanter hope. She thinks that like my half-sister, she'll wake one magical, golden morning to learn that she is also adopted.



*A messy business. Glad I won't be present for it.

Quick on the Uptake

Sometimes I can be a little sensitive about RobertPlant's friendship with Initials in the Tree.

We were browsing the shelves of a bookshop, in the same aisle as a couple of very blonde and shapely young chicky babes, when I picked up a new book about The Clash. Initials is, apparently, a big fan.

There was a touch of the snide in my voice when I waggled the volume in front of RobertPlant's face and said, "Here, why don't you get this for your boyfriend?"

"No point. I think he's lost interest."

At this the two chicky babes glanced around.

"In The Clash, not me," RobertPlant hastily amended, glancing right back at them.

"Not that he was ever interested in me," he corrected, digging himself in a little deeper.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," I declared before braying with laughter. The chicky babes looked blank and turned away to resume perusing the bookshelves.

I think the subject area on their side of the aisle was Remedial Reading.

Couples Therapy

Hong Kong Fooey arranged for RobertPlant and I to head along to a quiz night with him. [And who should I spy there, but Cellobella (to her frustration, I did not introduce myself: occasionally I can be overcome with galloping shyness)]. As usual, we did pretty badly. Not helped by me changing a couple of answers. I don't normally do things like that, and now I see why.

Hong Kong Fooey was being most gentlemanly to me all evening, commenting on how great my hair looked.

He said it for about the fifth time: "Your hair looks great, haze: in fact, you look great!"

"Why thank you, Honkers," I said. Then I turned to RobertPlant and hissed, "Why can't you ever say things like that?"

He looked unmoved. "Because I couldn't give a maldicion."

Then a girl on our table piped up, "Wait a minute: are you two together?"

"Noooo!" we shrieked in unison.

"Well, I didn't think so but just then you had me wondering."

I can understand her confusion. Our friendship has lasted longer than many marriages (not looking anywhere), and will probably continue to stagger along. I like to think it's the constant bickering that keeps it fresh.

Theory of Relativity

Earlier this year RobertPlant and I went to see Crispin Glover's Big Slide Show. It was a great night and at the end of the evening he took questions from the audience and was available to chat afterwards. I really wanted to stand up during question time and ask, "Do you have a girlfriend?" but frankly I felt too shy. Both RobertPlant and I were disappointed in my reticence.

So I resolved while we were lining up to have our Robert Forster books signed that I wouldn't let another opportunity pass me by. Not to ask him if he had a girlfriend! Sheesh. I could see he was wearing a wedding ring. I mean, come on.

I got up to him and handed him my book.

"You know, I can't stand how my own voice sounds so how does it feel, you're standing here in this bookshop and they're playing your songs over the speakers? Do you like hearing your music playing?"

"It's a bit odd. I don't mind it like this for a little while, but if it went on too long it'd feel strange."

"So you don't get into your car and slip on a 'best of' of yourself for the journey then?"

"Er, no."

He smiled but he also looked at me a little warily. Robert Forster thinks I'm a weirdo! Robert Forster clearly hasn't been to see Crispin Glover's Big Slide Show.

Mr Burt Reynolds and Mr Dolly Parton

RobertPlant has decided to turn his obsessive attentions to Robert Forster.

[When will he ever become obsessed with Bob?? Oh the conversations we could be having!]

So we were at Planet Books last night where RF was signing books. RobertPlant had bought two copies of the book, one for each of us, for the requisite autograph. It's been a while since he's bought a new book; he was somewhat affronted at the cost. He's going to be even more affronted when he gets to the content. I'd picked up a few other books I planned to buy. I showed him the latest one by Alan Bennett.

"Do you think RF would be offended if I asked him to sign this instead?"

RobertPlant snorted. The old jokes always get the best reactions.

He's hung up on a clown from the 60s.

RobertPlant got all excited months ago when he found out that The Stems were doing three final - last chance to see - shows in Perth, so he promptly went out and bought tickets to all three. I went along with him to Mojo's on Saturday night for that performance. It was a pretty good night. The place was, naturally enough, packed to the rafters with Perth Guys - little wonder, The Stems themselves being died-in-the-wool Perth Guys. RobertPlant seemed happy. I could tell he was happy: he kept handing over money without complaint so I could toddle over to the bar and get myself another drink. I wish I was good at reviews so I could give you a review, but I'm not. Just take my word for it, it was a fun night. You totally missed out. RobertPlant ran into people he knew from the old days, just hanging on the scene, the way he did. For one, brief moment he was re-immersed in his glory days.

For me the highlight of the evening was earlier, when we were browsing for books in Elizabeth's. A couple in their late 30s/early 40s came wandering in, looking like first-few-dates material. The guy took a look around, hitched up his pants and loudly declared, "I'm not really into books." RobertPlant and I shared a meaningful look; a look I also shared with an older, immaculately dressed woman a little further along the aisle. I wanted to sidle up to the female half of the couple and urge her to flee while she still could. Then I glanced in her direction and from the expression on her face I think that's exactly what she was planning to do anyway.

An Opening

"The thing about Ikea," I said to RobertPlant, "is that it's filled with all these irresistible little Swedish things."

"And the stuff they sell isn't too bad either."

Homer, I hardly knew you.

RobertPlant is beavering away on another literary masterpiece, or three. He sent me some excerpts to read and then asked for an instant opinion (ie, validation). I give good validation.

"I really like this one. I think this is the best thing I've seen you write." [I said, validatingly.]

"Oh yeah, out of the dozens of things I've written."

"No! There's the one about the French guy, and that other one about the war."

[Snort of derision.] "I looked at that one the other day. What a load of... I'd love to be able to completely re-write it."

"It's a good story!"

"Yeah, well I've decided it's time to clean up my act. I've got to stop pretending I'm Bruce Chatwin and start pretending I'm Peter Ackroyd. I need to channel a brand new effete English writer."

Wires

RobertPlant had to make a flying visit to Sydney. He rang me last night to get some help with a crossword clue.

"I got you some chocolates," he told me.

"Oooh, thanks ever so!"

"But I ate them."

I think he's going to find the rest of that puzzle deucedly difficult to solve with the answer I gave him to 22 across.

Variations on a Theme Parts I & II

Part I


RobertPlant was admiring my shoes as we walked along.

"Oooh, nice shoes. A sensible flat heel I see.....Mmmm, with just a hint of discipline."


Part II

We were doing boxing at boot camp. The young lad taking the class was giving us some instructions.

"So you stand with your dominant hand back. And then you take your other hand...whaddya call that?...your non-dominant hand?"

"Er, would that be your submissive hand?" I asked.

There were a few snorts of laughter. The light was dim but I believe the poor lad blushed.

Not for Delicate Ears

Just had a pancake lunch with RobertPlant, who is 'carbo loading' before the Perth marathon on Sunday. We were talking about Roald Dahl. RobertPlant is a bit of a fan.

"But have you noticed about his stories?" he asked. We were stuffing our faces in Pancakes at Carillion. "All they seem to be about is either sex or" - leans over, drops voice to a whisper - "art."

A Man After Midnight

Even though I've long known that RobertPlant has an aversion to celebrating any kind of milestones or socially-sanctioned events, like Christmas, I was foolish enough to ask him the other day if he planned to do anything to mark his rapidly-approaching 40th birthday.

"I don't have to conform to society's expectations of me!" he ranted down the phone.

Well, he's right. But a simple 'no' would have sufficed.

"I've got a great idea for something to get you! Is it okay if I get you something?"

"Oh, yeah. Presents are good."

His heart's in the right place, then.

Double Bunger

I was picking RobertPlant up on Saturday evening so we could head out to a quiz night with Hong Kong Fooey and Michael Buble. When I got to his house he was still out doing something else, demonstrating his usual casual attitude to time. I got on the phone to him, "Where are you?? You'd better get yourself back here quick smart. We have to leave now." He got home only to cop Tam O'Shanter having a go at him over something while I continued to nag about needing to shoot out the door. I felt a momentary pang of sympathy for him and said, "Wow, you're getting it in both ears tonight."

"Yeah," he said, "And I'm the one who likes to watch Big Love."

No More Mushrooms for Lunch for Her

"Small Thing, where's your hat?" RobertPlant asked.

"Well, Dad, I was walking along and it just blew off into mystery."