In Bed with Jocasta (12 page)
Read In Bed with Jocasta Online
Authors: Richard Glover
It was just a general non-specific, open-ended question. But since Jocasta and I were the only ones in the room, it may have had just a hint of
‘J’accuse’.
Jocasta, slowly, carefully, began to answer. And I was shocked. For the first time in our years together, she was giving the answer for which my question clearly yearned.
‘I did it,’ said Jocasta. ‘It was my fault. You weren’t to know I’d moved it. And into such an idiotic place. And now, of course, I feel so stupid. And the thought that you, darling, may have been hurt … ‘
It was great hearing those words — those tender, blame-accepting words — but it didn’t take long for me to hear a cautionary voice in the back of my head. A voice that said: ‘Mate, beware, for I think she may very well be taking the piss.’
And thus, verily, did it come to pass.
Jocasta, surrounded by sheets of tongue-in-groove panelling, had now taken to waving a sharp chisel in my direction. ‘Suddenly it’s become clear,’ she said, ‘the importance of my role. I’m the scapegoat. The person who takes the blame off the others. I mean, look at the team of tradesmen on your typical building site — you’ve got the brickie, the chippie and the sparkie. And then the scapie. The scapegoat.
‘And, let’s face it, the scapie may well be the most important role of all. The chippie may stop the ceiling collapsing. But the scapie stops the
chippie
collapsing — we buttress his ego, we are the massive bearers who take the strain of his mistakes.’
I decided to retaliate: ‘Look, I merely asked … ‘
‘No’, said Jocasta, ‘I’m not upset, I merely want recognition for the role — for all we scapies, both male and female, at home and in business. I want recognition for the service we provide. Like the salesman in the small company, the bloke who gets blamed by the boss and everyone else for the turndown in the business; every time things get tense, every time they consider sacking everyone and reorganising the firm, the cry will go up, “But it’s all Gordon’s fault”.’
Jocasta explained: ‘Gordon’s the scapie, and if you think about it, he’s the one bloke holding that place together. And then there’s your domestic scapies, heroically taking the blame. The bloke burns the casserole? Ah, says the scapie, I should have alerted you to the proper cooking temperature.
‘Or the bloke who backs the Falcon up the driveway, drunk, and knocks in the fence? My fault for not moving the fence a little to the left.’
I decided to sit down on my tool box and take a lower profile.
‘Mate,’ continued Jocasta, letting loose her tool belt, ‘I’d just like to see some recognition. Like today. Without a good scapie like me, you’d lose your confidence. You wouldn’t be able to continue in the delusion that you’re a good builder, tragically saddled with an incompetent helper.’
Jocasta smiled one of her fabulous smiles, and I decided it was best to get on with things — measuring a fresh bit of panelling, and sawing it off according to my template.
I went to hammer it in, and Jocasta and I both instantly spotted the problem. ‘No way,’ she said rapidly, ‘could you have been so stupid as to saw that angle the wrong way round, totally wasting the piece of wood. I mean, only a total idiot would do that. Nah, it must have been my fault. The way I completely distracted you with all that talk.’
I looked up at my life-partner, and met her blue eyes, which were alive with a twinkle I have long learnt to fear. ‘You see,’ she said, in a secretive whisper, ‘I really am the world’s best scapie.’
T
here are many scientific rules that affect ordinary life, so isn’t it time we collected the most significant dozen?
Rule 1: The uglier the couch, the more comfort it provides
One of the great, overriding laws of the universe, right up there with E = mc
2
. Sink into a truly ugly couch, and instantly you feel the difference: the comforting orange velour covering; the low-slung sprawl of its cushions; the groaning springs which bow to your superior weight. The truly fashionable, meanwhile, find themselves perched aboard something sleek and Italian, the upholstery so taut it could repel bullets.
Even in city restaurants, this law works its magic. Hence the sub-law: the more expensive the restaurant, the less comfortable the chairs. Oh, for a top-notch eatery fitted out with vinyl-upholstered booths.
Rule 2: The more hideous the sock, the more likely it is to last forever
I spend half my life buying pairs of stylish cotton business socks. Within weeks, only one of them is left, the other is missing in action or full of holes. But here is a curious fact: ugly, nylon socks never leave you. Make a rash purchasing error in 1977 — something nylon, something tartan, something perhaps with writing on it — and there it will be twenty years on, winking at you from your sock drawer, demanding to be worn to work every Friday, when all other contenders are gone.
Rule 3: A spoon, placed at random on a kitchen sink, will automatically position itself under the tap
Who knows why, but turn on the tap at full blast and every spoon within 50 metres will have positioned itself beneath the torrent. The effect: a wide-arching spray of scalding water all over the washer-up.
Rule 4: With processed food, hope springs eternal
The frozen lasagne. The microwavable pizza. The dried pasta product: ‘Just add water and you’ve got Spaghetti Carbonara that a restaurant would serve.’ So many products, so many promises — and so many bitter disappointments.
Yet how quickly we forget. My hand pauses at the supermarket freezer, hovering over the frozen Meat Pie and Vegetables Family Dinner.
How bad can it be?
Two hours later we eat, and discover the answer: very bad indeed. But, somehow, the next week Jocasta and I are back, behind the trolley, lingering at the freezers. We’re like Adam and Eve — before that first bite of Frozen Apple Pie Surprise, innocent in the face of experience: ‘I mean, how bad … ‘
Rule 5: Men are genetically incapable of reading a recipe to the end before they start cooking
This explains why, when waiting at the dining table for a gentleman host to serve his meal, guests will often hear a scream of rage at about 8.00 p.m. It marks the moment he has turned over the cookbook’s page and seen for the first time: ‘Step 4, simmer gently for six hours.’
Rule 6: The comfort and contentment of any baby is in inverse proportion to that of the adult holding it
Only when you are standing on one leg, leaning to the left and rocking backwards will a baby consider stopping crying.
Rule 7: Toilets are all designed so the lid will not stay upright of its own accord, but instead hovers precariously before slamming shut at the worst possible moment
This is the primary cause of nervous illness among the male population. And of wet toilet seats.
Rule 8: The phone only ever rings when you are sitting down to dinner
This is completely unlike the doorbell, which only ever rings when you are in the shower. People who crave human contact should instantly retire to the shower with their dinner.
Rule 9: The more sport your children play, the more unhealthy you’ll become
All children’s sport in Australia has the same fundraising method: the sausage sizzle. They play; you eat. Thus the strange outcome: the fitter they get, the fatter you’ll get.
Rule 10: Photocopy machines never work
This shows how technology has gone downhill since the days of the reliable Roneo machine. (Thus giving rise to the common office cry: ‘Wherefore art thou, Roneo?’)
Rule 11: Radio news bulletins of great personal interest are only ever broadcast when your car is about to enter a tunnel
The broadcast is always cut off one and a half seconds after entering the tunnel and will resume on the last word as you leave it.
Rule 12: The more times you hear the phrase ‘your call is important to us’, the less important it actually is
I
could
go on. For instance: ‘The more inaccessible the light bulb, the more often it will need to be changed.’ Or, ‘The nicer the shirt, the more likely the pen will leak in the top pocket.’ Or, ‘The chance of a baby throwing up on its parent’s shoulder rises with the cost of the garment being worn.’
But, as scientists would know, this can only ever be a partial list. We’ll call you for more suggestions next time you’re sitting down to dinner.
Jocasta, cleaning out the laundry, discovers
we don’t actually have three ironing baskets.
We have
four.
And this one has been sitting
around for months. It’s the Ironing Basket of
Death. It’s the Too-Hard Basket.
I
‘m kneeling on the bathroom floor, a virtual human sacrifice, armed only with a rolled-up copy of
Home Style Today
magazine. In front of me, an outstretched arm away, is our washing machine — 60 kilos of hulking rust, water and malevolence — about to enter a spin cycle of quite frightening abandon.
As it picks up speed, it starts to shake and shudder and thud, almost jitterbugging toward the door. It’s a big fat square of white and chrome, busy shaking itself to death — sort of like Elvis in 1977.
Right now I’m trying to stuff the copy of
Home Style Today
under Elvis’s front left leg. My aim is to achieve some sort of stability, despite a bathroom floor which is full of sudden depressions. Much like its owners.
The washing machine, it seems clear, has a different aim: to crush me into a bloodied pulp and leave me dead against the bathroom wall. I heave upwards and start pushing the
Home Style Today
under Elvis’s leg; the magazine ripping a little so that I can see a few flashes of its contents. Azure pools. Sunday brunches. Found objects.
‘Back, damn you,’ I mutter as I shove, my cheek pressed up against Elvis’s shuddering side, my frontal lobes getting a most attention-grabbing work-over. ‘A
Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On’.
The way I’ve folded the magazine, a typical
Home Style Today
article faces upwards as I push it into place: ‘It’s easy’, it says, ‘to achieve a sophisticated but relaxed lifestyle’.
I don’t quite know why Jocasta and I buy these magazines. In theory it’s to get home-making tips. But the main ‘tip’, it always turns out, is to have about five million dollars and a team of decorators and tradesmen. Certainly that’s what everyone featured in the magazine has done.
Take this particular article, on top of which Elvis’s leg is currently shuddering. Brett and Veronica, of Darling Point, have recently decided to build a waterfront home of first-class design, with stables, pool and en suite granny mansion. Interestingly, it appears that Brett is heir to the SaltyBitz snack-food empire, while Veronica’s a freelance design consultant who’s done groundbreaking work in the area of bathroom vanities, and is closely related to the Queen of Sheba.
Must I read on? I must. My head is face down, pressed toward the article, as I struggle with the shuddering Pelvis, my knees sinking into that dip in the bathroom floor where the kids’ bathwater always collects.
The photographs show a house slightly larger than the Sydney Football Stadium, equipped with virtually no furniture, save for a couple of chairs manufactured by the Danish Torture Commission. As chairs go they are very minimalist.
Very
minimalist. In fact, they’re just two radiata posts, placed casually onto the floor, above which guests are meant to hover. A snip at $2 000 each. As Veronica simpers: ‘To strip furniture back like that, to its very essence, to its very piece-of-woodiness, well, naturally it costs a little.’
Veronica describes her house as ‘cosy — a real traditional home’, later providing her own special definition of ‘cosy’: ‘It’s a place where one can easily invite 260 close friends to an impromptu performance of
Aida,
and still have room for a horse race down the hall.’
As you might expect, Brett and Veronica’s children are all above average. I give another shove against Elvis’s flank, and find myself remembering a book I once saw. Something like:
How to Increase Your IQ by Eating Gifted Children.
Thank goodness Veronica, with her usual flair, has chosen to house the children in their own wing, nestled by the harbour.
Suddenly, I feel I have a lot in common with Veronica, as our shuddering washing machine starts spewing water from its innards, cascading over my legs.
‘There you are, Veronica,’ I think, with just that little bit of pride, staring down at my soaked jeans, ‘you’re not the only one close to the water.’
The washing machine starts spasming, banging against the peeling paint on the bathroom wall, before the spin cycle finally stops. I relax, allowing my head to loll against Elvis’s still warm flank. Idly, I wonder where Veronica’s machine comes from. Probably Sweden.
People talk about the shattering effect of the cover-girl supermodels on the body-image of normal women; but what about the effect of a single issue of
Home Style Today
on our domestic morale? Perhaps I need a new magazine, more tailored to my lifestyle. Something like
Bad Housekeeping.
Or
Slacker Homes and Gardens.
Or
Home Bludger.
I pat Elvis’s flank and start to remove the clothes, which I must say he has washed superbly.
Veronica’s house — and washing machine — may be elegant, but sometimes, particularly at wash time, it’s not so bad to have some real agitation.
F
or a few years now, the world has seen an exponential growth in web-sites and e-businesses — all united by the desire to print EverySecond WordTogether for no DiscernibleReason.
But surely we need even more such businesses — all helping yet more people replace real experiences with web-potato ones.
SmellTheRoses.com
At SmellTheRoses we interrupt your work every half-hour, replacing your current Net page with a high-resolution picture of a rose, thus forcing you to take a break and it least
see
the roses. Voted Most Annoying Web Service four years running.
