DEAR JOHN: I’m a virgin when it comes to writing to newspaper
advice columnists but not in other ways, if you’re with me. Once a worldly-wise
woman with a dab of Passioné by Lenthéric behind each knee, I now spend
my time at an ironing board in the kitchen giving my husband’s collars blasts
of steam from a Sunbeam Alpha (pro tip: ensure the temperature is above the two
dot [••] setting). Between hisses, I picture myself on a Hyannis Port sand dune
near the Kennedy compound or browsing the walk-in cheese room at Fourth Village
Providore. Anywhere but here. I’m in a rut and, Dear John, you could be my
saviour. What sensible and sensitive tips do you have?
-
Abby,
Marrickville, NSW
DEAR ABBY: Pull yourself together, I’ve got my own
problems. How’d you like to sit here each day shovelling out an Inbox clogged with
self-pitying, mewling correspondence from overly needy people? If you’re
looking for a saviour, try your nearest Cross. Frankly, your carping is adding
to an already difficult time.
This morning, after a fibre-intensive breakfast
of All Bran Original sprinkled with Metamucil – the combination gives an
orange-flavoured kickstart to your interior plumbing you won’t regret provided when
you go out you’ve got a handy map showing public toilets – I found myself in Aisle
11 of Woolworths. There’s something immensely depressing about playing dodgem
cars with shopping trollies propelled by demented shoppers who’re either kitted
out for the Virus Apocalypse or, worse, who’re unaware of social distancing
norms and insist on frotting as you bend over for competitively priced products
on lower shelves. That’s provided there are any products. Today there were no
loo rolls. Again.
I’m not asking bovine, stampeding customers to grasp
the theory of supply-side economics, simply to understand the concept of supply
and demand. The former can’t keep up with the latter if you’re stashing multiple
packs of Sorbent Hypo Allergenic Toilet Tissue under the loose floorboards in
your spare room. Even the recycled toilet paper had gone. Not literally
recycled, which might prove confronting for the hygiene faddists who’d also made
off with the Glen 20, but that uncomfortable and presumably planet-saving blend
of radiata pine chips and sandpaper with brand names like iCare. Sure.
Once back in the main shopping centre, I held my
breath for the three-fold benefit of avoiding inhaling a certain virus as well
as the odour of Chemist Warehouse discount colognes and the smug stench swirling
around shoppers whose trollies held 3-ply, botty-pampering delights, valuable
beyond the dreams of Croesus.
To steel myself for the horror of facing
moaning missives such as yours, Abby, I took out a second mortgage to purchase
a coffee as bitter as the barista who concocted it. At least at McDonald’s the
franchisees do you the courtesy of not even pretending the beverages are: (i) drinkable
just because they’re squirted out of a $16,000 La Marzocco Linea Classic &
Linea PB machine; (ii) meant for anything other than taking away the taste of other
products on sale. Macca’s new Cheesy range, for starters. From the photo you so
thoughtfully attached to your email and which I immediately deleted (although
not before zooming in on your hair. Abby, you can’t make the most of yourself
without a good conditioner) you look like a woman who’s no stranger to the
delights of the Golden Arches’ Loose Change menu. With the Cheesy offerings, one
bite into the deep-fried Olympic discus of processed – I’m going to say – ‘mozzarella’
squished between bun halves, and your childhood hopes and dreams of one day
leading a rich, fulfilling life will explode as you (note: trigger-warning metaphor
upcoming) step on a landmine of low-density lipoprotein cholesterol.
But enough about you. On my way home, I noticed
the Health Department was boosting the stocks of marquee leasers by erecting another
pop-up drive-thru COVID-19 testing site. Frankly it’s a waste of taxpayers’
money when Macca’s, KFC et al have much-frequented drive-thrus. Here’s a chance
to upsize the Governmental approach. Surely even those thousands of Flat Earthers
with their tinfoil hats and antennas made of wire coathangers who refuse to be tested
– fearing nursing staff (aka alien lizard creatures encased in human skin) are
using swabs to ram 5G-enhanced microchips into patients’ sinus cavities – will
comply if the spotty teen handing them a dinner box of encrusted chicken
privates then leans across and, through the car window, forcefully prods a
cotton wool bud on a 150 millimetre-long stick up their nasal passage?
However, if Solyent Green-style products, chips
(non-micro) and chilli goop don’t lure the Conspirati to testing venues, then
Governments will need to sharpen their comms. It’s no use prattling on about us
all being in this together when it’s obvious that society’s privileged are
having a very good pandemic, thank you very much, and will sail through, emerging
relaxed and with better tans. The less privileged will stagger out the other
end of the crisis, broke and broken. Alas, it was ever so. As we slouch towards
The Future what do you think, Abby, of a Government message stating 'Abandon
hope all ye who enter here.'?
But who’s interested in my views on optimising
global health strategies? They don’t resonate with the haute bourgeoisie who
think just because they pay for a newspaper subscription and have my email
address that they can badger me about trifles. Only yesterday, a citizen of some
godforsaken parish such as Mosman or Rose Bay was bleating about the price of a
panini at a local boatshed café. Here am I with my sanity barely held together
with Prozac, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Effexor, Ritalin and Focalin. Should I care if an
aioli and pesto-smeared foreign bread is on a menu at $25?
To ward off the worrywarts perhaps I should
brick up my front door and … no, wait, let’s refine that concept: brick up
others’ front doors. Sydneysiders should be on alert. If they twitch the curtains
one day and spot a gent of a certain age plodding down the street with a wheelbarrow
stacked with burnt clay bricks plus cement, hydrated lime, sand and water then they’ll
know who it is. On third thoughts, that won’t stop people who plan to pester me
having access to Gmail and the Internet. Unless, of course, they’re with
Telstra. Please, don’t start me.
Back to your email. I see you’re in Marrickville.
A good suburb for a witness protection program. Who goes there? I haven’t
visited for years. I recall that last time I was standing on the main drag’s
footpath attempting to shove a freshly-assembled gyros, possibly spelt ‘yeeros’,
into my mouth before an unkempt sans-culottes exuding a startling aroma of
stale tobacco and fresh urine, attempted to touch me up for a few coins to fund
his cosmopolitan lifestyle. I failed.
My problem is that I have kind eyes. Vagabonds
and other mendicants take me for a softie. They’re right, Abby. That’s why I’m
in the Advice Column business.
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