They’re A Weird Bunch
I came across this great book ‘They’re a weird mob’, written by Nino Culotta, and decided I might try to write something similar about what living Down Under is all about for me. Here is what I came up with. Let me know what you think and whether I should continue. Of course this is just a fiction. Anyone who thinks he/she recognises himself/herself might of course be right.
Who the hell is Muriel Demarcus? I bet that’s what’s you asked yourself when you started reading this blog, wasn’t it?
Well, my name is Muriel Demarcus. I was baptised Muriel Julie Therese Demarcus, if you must know, because in pure French style I have two middle names, one for each of my grandmother’s first names (it’s a French thing, don’t ask). And yes, I am French-born, in case you hadn’t already guessed. I am a bush girl from Provence.
The Demarcus family is not famous for doing anything, except maybe for leaving a string of broken hearts and illegitimate children when they emigrated from Sardinia to France. As far as I know I am the first one to be living in Australia. Officially, that is, of course, because I don’t know about the ‘unofficial’ members of the family, although I am told that they are all good Catholics, baptised, confirmed, and the rest of it.
As for me, I am not famous for doing much -if anything- either. I love writing, and once made the cover of The Times magazine with a baguette (fully clothed of course). I also love running and found out that, as I grew older, I was better at endurance than in my younger years. This led me to run various ultra marathons. Finally, I can’t resist delivering or upgrading metro lines, which got me a Permanent Resident visa for Australia, despite my ripe age.
Anyway, here I am, sitting on my balcony early on a crisp Sunday morning, listening to the tapping of the waves on the pier, and sipping my cappuccino while admiring the Sydney Harbour bridge. What’s not to like about Australia?
There is a grey and orange spider on the wall, next to the only plant I have managed not to kill just yet, and I am not entirely sure what to do with it. My teenage daughter, who grew up in London, has gone into hiding, and closed the curtain of her bedroom. She’s scared to death. She’s a city girl, and screams that we should call someone to help as a matter of urgency. I try to explain to her that spiders are useful and eat insects, but she’s clearly in shock. She grew up in London and isn’t used to any form of wild life. As for me, I still remember fondly a small green lizard that used to keep me company during the holidays when I was growing up in Provence. I am a live-and-let-live sort of person. That said, I might have to get some plastic plants instead of real ones, I think to myself. They’ll last longer anyway.
The spider seems to have disappeared. The neighbour’s garden is much more interesting than mine, me thinks. Problem solved. My daughter is still terrified and suggests that she could use her body board to kill it. I explain to het that it won’t be necessary, because the spider has gone by now. She’s not convinced, but slowly opens her curtains. ‘Where did it go, Maman?’ ‘I have no clue’, I answer ‘Probably onto the next balcony’. It doesn’t really reassure her. She’ll get over it eventually.
I keep being asked why we moved to Oz. The truth is very simple: I did it for me. After 15 years in Blighty, it was time for a change. I needed some sun. My elder daughter was starting university, and my younger one wasn’t really suited to the British system. I wanted to go back to work, but kept being lectured about my French accent, and patronised at every possible opportunity. To make matters even worse, nobody talks to anybody in my dysfunctional French family: my parents went through a very acrimonious divorce thirty years ago, and haven’t talked to each other ever since. As a result, half of my family stopped speaking to the other half, and I grew tired of keeping track of who talked to whom, and what they had done to upset each other. I reckon that things will be a lot easier this side of the world as I’ll just have to send Christmas cards from the beach, and as an added bonus we won’t need to spend the exact same amount of time at my Mum’s, then at my Dad’s, and then have to diet for at least three months.
Another reason why I love it here is that Australians make the best mates. They have made very real contributions to my education. In fact, I have made more friends over the last few months than during years in London. We often meet up for breakfast at a local café and discuss issues that are close to our hearts. We help and coach each other. There is no judgment, just an amazing solidarity that I hadn’t found anywhere else. I am hugely grateful for this, and slightly surprised that I had to move so far away from my home country to find it. But there you go.
I see Ann & Jane waiving at me from the café downstairs, and I put on my flip-flops (they say thongs over here) to join them.
I sit at the table just in time to hear Jane order her coffee:
- ‘Large Skinny flat-white extra hot with a jug of hot water on the side please’
She cracks me up every time. I burst off laughing.
- ‘They get it wrong all the time. It’s extra hot, not extra shot, you see.’
Life is tough Down Under.
