My Secret Life: The Suburbs

In the coccoon of my father’s study, on the laptop, surrounding by a whole series of “The history of England”, a keyring of “Royal Flying Service of Australia”, cockoo clock that chimes every half an hour, pictres of some ships, with the smell of roast beef, waffing through into the room. I know I am back in suburbia. I will be drinking a glass or two of red wine, watch some more trashy TV, then grab the marie claire I bought at the supermarket and retire to bed at 10, wake up at 8 and be out on the boat fishing by 9. For lunch I will get myself a meat pie and slather it with ketchup, eat a meriange, and throughout the day I will say “Good day” to random people and have a chat, and talk about the weather. I will make some jokes, and they will use the back of their hands to hit me because i am being a smart aleck, and my dad will use the very strong language of “Rat bag” to insult the fellow “idiot driver” on the high way. Mom will feed me all kinds of food through out the day, and I will sit in the patio and look at the herb garden. But I also must go because “numnum” is on the table, and I love roast sweet potatoes with gravy. So nitey nite.

Yan