The harsh rumble of the echoing exhaust died away while the sweet purring breaths from the petite French tourist made the prospect of living even more desirable. Paradise Bay edged into sight, cradled in purple and orange hues. As the cicadas romanced the evening, soft perfume drifted from the blond head presently snuggling for a cozier position on my arm. The car stopped with a slight jerk, momentarily confusing the large sleep laden almond eyes, I could feel the warm glow coming off the pretty face as I lent over for a brief touch of lips. At that moment, life could not be better except for Jetro Tull, who decided, at that very moment, to savagely crash through the rest of my dream, followed by the 7am news at full volume.
After dislodging the finger-nails out of the sides of the mattress, bolted out of bed, deftly kicking the clock-radio into the corner, hit the floor running, leapt over the dog catching my toe on the coffee table, landing in an undignified heap among last night's chicken dinner and ash-tray remains. Not withstanding the lateness of the hour, breakfast was in order, coffee in the microwave, biscuit in hand burst into the bathroom. Guy in the mirror doesn't look so good! mental note to replace mirror… Half a shower and 3 razor cuts later, lunge back into the kitchen to find an empty cup in a microwave full of coffee. Taking a swig out of the milk carton, pull clothes on as I stumble back into the bedroom. "Good God I'm late" I panic, as, deftly kicking an unsympathetic snoring dog, jump at the front door, dragging it closed.
7:28am hurdle over fence, narrowly avoiding garbage truck while crossing street with hands rifling through my coat for car keys. Suddenly my mind returns me crumpled in a heap after the coffee table attack, with an image of keys nestling snuggly between a chicken drumstick bone and a half smoked cigarette. Sulking back to the window, look in to see confirmation of my fear glinting knowingly at me from behind deadlocked doors.
I cry softly into the collar of my coat and wish it were Saturday. Rain started to play a dull rhythm on the back of my neck as Rufus, the no good -waste of space-mongrel, yawns and turns over basking in the warmth of my misery. Dabbing at the tears of frustration with the last 2 dollar note from Thursday's pay, formulate a plan to lever the bedroom window open with the crowbar uncle Jack left me in his will. Problem was Rufus; little mangy Git felt duty bound to practice his guard dog instincts only on me.
Have I told you about Rufus? Rufus is a bitsa - a bit of this, a bit of that, you could tell he's a dog from his growl, can't tell from just looking at him, but the kid is as mean as Indian curry and twice as hot tempered, A flat mate of mine sold him to me for a pack of cards, I thought he was a rabbit and nearly cooked him one day, I don't think he's ever forgiven me for that.
E-mail to Ray Agius: Ramel@bigpond.com
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